


Occlusion

by orphan_account



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-11-28 14:04:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 47,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11419548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Games within games, played ever in darkness. Manipulation, treachery, rules twisted and broken. Blood sings and whispers, and he falls as she rises, to what end?Canon plot compliant, with some divergence. Female Tremere fledgling. Multi-chapter.





	1. Chapter 1

White walls and concrete floors. Of course. Modern cretins so loved such environs, loved filling them with bits of detritus and paint, like small creatures lining their nests against the cold - if small creatures charged their fellows inordinate sums to view their pitiful hovels. Surely the Toreadors adored it, though. They’d chosen the venue for this intolerable diversion. Predictable. When was a Toreador anything but? They milled about the museum’s central atrium turned ballroom with other, less enthusiastic kindred, and mortals naively delighted by their gleaming, candlelit, achingly trendy surroundings.

Sebastian LaCroix detested them all.

Oh, this was necessary, of course. All such things were. They served a purpose, and serving the Camarilla’s purpose was _his_ purpose, after all. Mostly. For him, the personal goal of such fetes was observation. Information was so often filtered through other sources, and those sources were so often pestilent sewer rats that the knowledge itself practically smelled foul. It was useful to watch others for himself. Naturally, they mostly avoided him, except for the expected bit of obeisance upon arrival. A few overstayed - sycophants, the ambitious. Nothing unexpected.

All the main players he’d presumed would attend were there. The blonde, tightly laced Voerman sister, trying so hard to be a Ventrue. Her primogen, Grout, a smile pasted to his lined face below blank eyes. Interestingly, he smelled of fear. Paranoia, or some accursed insight?

An observation to be acted upon later, if need be. Not that Malkavians being a source of trouble was anything new.

“Prince LaCroix.” Maximillian Strauss’ typically low, conspiratorial voice came from his right.

“Regent.” He glanced at the warlock, clothed in gaudy crimson per usual. Apparently expecting these crusted kindred to dress like normal, modern people was setting too high a standard. Strauss’ glasses - another pointless affectation - glinted with candlelight and hid his eyes. LaCroix sighed. “And what can I help you with on this delightful evening? Since you clearly have a request but seem reticent to ask.”

Strauss shifted in place. “Not a request, as such, merely an update on that... ongoing situation.”

LaCroix waved his hand slightly. “I believe you informed me it was a Tremere matter and would be handled as such?”

“Indeed, as it was. The offending ghoul has been eliminated. Alexander Germaine is another matter, however.”

Damned Mages. LaCroix pinched the bridge of his nose. One of the Tremere apprentices - one who had proven himself trustworthy and useful up until this point - had a ghoul who had evidently acted out of line. enough so that she had potentially violated the Masquerade. “Surely he understands the severity of her transgression? I was under the impression that guarding secrets is a bit of a fetish of your kind, yes?”

“Mm.” The Tremere shook his head. “I had hoped that he understood. He said little when confronted, seemingly because he was as surprised by her behavior as we were. Her death was unpleasant, of course, but necessary. Alexander will face other consequences within the Pyramid - nothing drastic, mind you, as he may have been unaware of her - “

“The specific details of apprenticeship are fascinating, Regent, but what _exactly_ seems to be the problem? I doubt we’d be speaking of this matter if it wasn’t more serious than clan discipline, which I assume you’re capable of meting out yourself.”

A muscle in Strauss’ jaw tightened. “He is here tonight, sir. With a different human female. I am... there is an air of defiance to this act, I fear.”

LaCroix raised an eyebrow and skimmed the crowd. He spotted the offending Tremere, Alexander, chatting with a small group, a brunette woman on his arm. “You think he intends... what?”

“He has been forbidden from taking a ghoul. She may be merely a donor, of course, but...” Strauss shook his head.

“And how is this not a Tremere matter? I appreciate the information, Strauss, but it’s not necessary to trouble me with every disciplinary - ”

“I fear he means to turn her,” the blood mage interrupted. “I believe you are on moderately friendly terms with him. I thought you ought to be informed before he brings the sword of judgment down upon himself.”

LaCroix shot a sharp glance at Strauss for his insolence, then hesitated. From what he had gathered, Alexander had been fairly attached to his former ghoul, but to commit suicide by deliberately violating kindred law? It seemed extreme. Yet, in truth, LaCroix did not know the Tremere apprentice well - they were cordial, and he’d found Alexander to be helpful, but that hardly made him a friend or meant that they’d spoken of personal matters. Perhaps such an act was in character for him. The fact that Strauss was suggesting it gave LaCroix pause. The Tremere regent was careful, deliberate. He would not make such an accusation on a whim. “I see. What evidence do you have?”

“I have a few... eyes on him, and their reports have been most troubling. I do not have the resources or skill that the Nosferatu do, however. Certainly this is a Camarilla concern as well as a Tremere one.”

“If what you’re saying is true, yes, but that’s quite an _if_.” LaCroix rubbed his temple. “I’ll see about having the Nosferatu follow him.”

“Understood. Your assistance is much appreciated. I will speak with him briefly tonight, and attempt to ascertain what I can, as well as remind him of the benefits of adhering to tradition.”

“Yes, fine. But do not take any additional action until we know more.”

Strauss bowed slightly. “Of course, sir.”

The evening dragged on, its nauseating war between vampire ennui and intrigue wearing on him. The music was throbbing and too loud, the scent of so much heated blood in an enclosed space adding to his restlessness. Through half-lidded eyes he watched the dancing guests, kindred and kine alike - some kine innocent and unknowing, others painfully aware. The Tremere Alexander danced with his human companion, her simple dark dress swirling about her, her face lit with a bright, laughing smile. Guileless and naive. LaCroix suspected she did not even know her partner was inhuman.

The new development made LaCroix uneasy. If Alexander truly intended to break the laws around siring, deliberately at the cost of his life, there was no telling what he might do. Violating the Masquerade at an event like this, considering he may have nothing to lose, was a real and disturbing possibility. Frowning, LaCroix took his phone from his pocket and sent a quick message to one of his Nosferatu agents, and a second to his sheriff.

One song ending gave LaCroix an easy opening as the dancers paused and many stopped to get refreshments. He slipped between them, smiling internally as he again noticed the way both kin and kine unconsciously parted for him to pass. Power of his magnitude had that effect. He stopped beside the apprentice and his companion.

“Alexander,” he said with a friendly smile.

The Tremere turned, the barest hint of having been startled smoothed over before most kindred would have noticed it. “Mr. LaCroix.” He smiled as well. “Great to see you, sir.”

“And you. I do hope you’re having a pleasant evening.” LaCroix turned toward the woman. Her features were austere, with high cheekbones and cool, inquisitive eyes. Quite unlike Alexander’s dead ghoul, who’d been pretty and painted enough for a Toreador. Perhaps that inclination was why her judgment had been so poor. This woman, though... her blood smelled of rain and old books. Interesting. “I also hope dear Alexander here is being a gentlemanly host, madame.”

“Of course.” She chuckled, brow creasing. She was wondering who he was. “I’d tolerate nothing less.”

Alexander cleared his throat. He was uncomfortable. Good. “Claire, this is my employer, Sebastian LaCroix. Mr. LaCroix, Claire Farington.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. LaCroix,” she said, extending her hand, her clear eyes still fixed on his.

“The pleasure is mine.” He took her hand and bowed slightly over it. He could feel Alexander’s nervousness like a physical presence in the room. “Ah, but I fear there is a bit of business that must be finalized this evening, Alexander.” LaCroix met the Tremere’s eyes, expending the barest mental effort. Dominating others was as easy to him as breathing had once been. “Mr. Strauss has brought a few papers with him. You know him, he can hardly relax for a moment. Just a signature or two, I believe. If you don’t mind going to speak with him now, yes? I promise to keep your lady friend entertained.”

For a fraction of a second, Alexander’s eyes dulled. A speck on the camera’s lens, gone with a snap of the shutter. “Of course, sir. I’ll be right back,” he added, nodding toward Claire.

She raised an eyebrow. “...Sure.”

LaCroix watched Alexander leave, heading toward Strauss at the far corner of the ballroom. When he was satisfied that the Tremere had obeyed, he turned back to the human woman. “My apologies,” he said, shaking his head. “Business is unrelenting, if one wishes to be successful in it. Surely Alexander has said as much, hmm?”

“I guess. We haven’t talked that much about his job, to be honest. No offense, Mr. LaCroix.” Her cheeks reddened with a mortal ingenue’s blush, and the predator beneath LaCroix’s skin stirred in its slumber. It was of no concern. He wouldn’t have lived so long if he didn’t have the willpower to be its master.

“None taken.” The music swelled loud again, some other ungodly gothic mix of industrial noise draped over an orchestral maelstrom. Somewhere Rameau was rolling in his grave - assuming he was in it. Claire’s expression lit up, to LaCroix’s amusement. “Enjoying our music this evening? A bit... experimental for a charity event. but then our event planners do always have their fingers on the pulse of culture.”

She laughed, light and clear. Dancers began to swirl around them, traditional ballroom movements contrasting with the music’s dark backdrop. “I don’t know about that. _I_ like it, and I’m not exactly what people would call cool.”

“No? I can’t say I’ve ever been accused of that, myself. Come.” LaCroix held out his hand. “Alexander won’t mind if I borrow you while he’s occupied.”

Claire hesitated, then grasped his hand and rested her other hand on his shoulder as he drew her into a sweeping spin. It was all easy enough. He might not even need to dominate her, the sweet thing. Her eyes, though... there was something sharp in them, past their plain hazel irises, something in the dark at their centers. She met his with no hint of shyness. Her movements were amateur but passable, and she followed his lead well, his guiding hand at the small of her back.

“So, I’m curious,” he said. “We so rarely have time for socializing at the company, I feel that I am missing out on opportunities to... get to know our employees and their friends and family better.”

She laughed. “You probably know Alex better than I do. It’s only our second date.”

“I’m not wondering about Alexander.” LaCroix spun her outward away from him then pulled her back again, quickly enough to make any mortal slightly dizzy.

For a moment she was silent, then she frowned. “Well, I don’t know what you’re expecting. I’m a glorified librarian. I work in the archives department at the history museum. That’s where Alex met me, at a lecture.”

“One you were giving?”

“Are you serious? No. I don’t like being on stage.”

He tilted his head. “You’re on one right now, in a way.”

“I can see that.” Claire shifted in his grip. “Anyway, it was more of a forum, really, about old texts on folk magic and occultism and nothing a businessman of your stature would be interested in.”

“No? And here I thought every great businessman had made a pact with the devil.”

Her posture relaxed slightly and one corner of her mouth quirked into a smile. “Not all of them. Only the best ones.”

“That’s good to hear. The ink’s long dried on mine.”

She chuckled, one hand drifting from his shoulder to the back of his neck. Good. God, though, her skin was warm. He was rarely in close contact with mortals for long; her perfectly normal human heat felt unnatural. Ironic. “The subject’s a favorite of mine. I mean, not selling your soul to the devil or whatever, but occultism in general. It’s just so fascinating to think there’s... more, don’t you think? And the layers and layers of ritual and belief, how people throughout time have tried to understand their world and to master it...”

A natural born Tremere. Christ have mercy. “I suppose the key for such people would be not to get so caught up in the web of detail that they lose sight of their ultimate goal, no? After all, what aim can there truly be other than power itself?”

“I was going to say knowledge, too.” Claire shrugged. “But that leads to the whole 'power and knowledge' aphorism, which I’d rather avoid, so never mind.”

“A wise choice.” Out of the corner of his eye, LaCroix could see Strauss’ scarlet getup and Alexander’s deep red shirt. Such typical unsubtle mages. At least the men were still talking. “And I assume Alexander must be interested in such topics as well, given that he was in attendance at that particular event?”

She nodded. “I’ve studied the subject academically, you know? My impression so far is that his knowledge is a little more hands-on.”

“How so? Does he have a voodoo doll of me in a cupboard somewhere?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Pity. I could’ve used it as a prototype for mass production. I’m certain there’s a market for them.”

Claire smiled as he spun her again. “Maybe by tomorrow he’ll have started making one.”

“Perhaps.” LaCroix drew her closer, just barely enough for her to notice. “Tell me, though. What sort of occultism is our Alexander dabbling in? He must have given you some kind of demonstration - or does that have to wait until the third date? The mores today change so quickly, one never knows with such things.”

A flush rose to her cheeks again. “It’s just been some talk, so far. Supposedly - well, I’m not sure what he’s planning. Something about the moon phase tonight, and...” She hesitated and shook her head, her face reddening further. “But you’re humoring me, Mr. LaCroix. It’s good of you but really, I’m boring. I - ”

He dipped her backward in a fluid sweep, so far that when he quickly drew her up he could hear the blood singing through her. Her fingers clenched in the fabric of his suit jacket as she steadied herself. “Nothing about this is me humoring you,” he said, his lips nearly touching her ear, inhaling the rain-and-paper scent of her blood as the music grew louder. He sensed but did not press inward, waiting, lightly tracing the folds of her mind with his own. She was water and cool velvet. Dominating her would be a pleasure, although this little game had its own delights. “I think you understand.”

He could feel her pulse quickening, feel its hypnotic rhythm as if it beat in his own dead veins, but his brow creased. Her hand felt warmer in his grip. Was that fear? He might have to indulge in his best skill after all.

“What are you afraid of, Claire?” he murmured, swiping his thumb along the back of hers.

She turned her head to meet his eyes, surprising him. “Nothing.”

LaCroix smiled. The beast in his gut growled and resettled itself. “Then tell me what Alexander has planned.”

Claire swallowed hard. “I don’t know, exactly. He said he wants to show me... well, he called it ‘real magic.’ He said it will... change me forever, apparently. I’m so curious but he won’t tell me anything else. He says it’s a surprise.”

Then Strauss could very well be right. Damn it all. LaCroix spun her with less grace than he’d intended, and behind her he saw Alexander starting to walk back toward the dance floor. The music rose and crashed and began to fade. He could force her not to meet with the Tremere, of course, but Alexander would find another human, another night, and perhaps would violate kindred law in a more public and dangerous way. Still, LaCroix could not bring Camarilla justice down on a kindred merely on insinuation. There were other methods, ones he’d employed many times, but this was a pivotal moment. He had to make an example of the Tremere vampire, should he actually break the law - a public example, one to again demonstrate his power over the city. The human, though... such a waste of a potential asset. Such a...

“Listen to me.” LaCroix let go of her hand and tilted her chin upward with one finger, startling her. “Consider carefully whether you want to open the door before you. It cannot be closed again.”

“I... I will.” She looked puzzled.

“Good.” He dropped his hand as the song ended, holding her more tightly to him for a second before releasing her. The mingled voices of the crowd around them was suddenly loud without the music behind it.

“Sorry about that, Claire,” came Alexander’s voice from nearby. LaCroix turned to see his already pale face looking even more bloodless, his smile too bright. “Everything’s all set, sir,” he added as he glanced at LaCroix, pointedly not making eye contact. As if that would matter if LaCroix wanted to command him.

“Excellent. Again, I do apologize for the intrusion.”

“Not at all.” Alexander turned back to Claire. “We should probably get going, though. It’s quite late.”

“I guess so,” Claire said, still watching LaCroix.

“Yes, of course. Things will be winding down soon enough, anyway.” LaCroix clapped Alexander lightly on the shoulder. “Have a good evening, eh?”

The Tremere nodded. His concealed fear and anger left an acrid taste in the air. “Thanks. You too, sir.” He started to leave, though Claire hesitated.

“Good night.” LaCroix took her hand and bowed over it, brushing it with his lips. He could feel her tremble. “ _À bientôt_.”

“Maybe you will.” Something flickered in the darkness of her eyes before she turned and left.

LaCroix watched them go as the interminable music swelled up again. He could feel Strauss’ eyes on him from across the room. Ignoring him, he took out his phone again and sent another message, this time to several agents.

_Follow Alexander Germaine immediately. Do not allow him or the kine female accompanying him out of your sight. Observe only, unless a violation is committed. Follow tranquilizing protocol if one occurs. -SL_


	2. Chapter 2

Thirst. Hunger. Painful emptiness screaming through every inch of her. She felt wrong on every level, her mind a black muddle, each nerve and sense inflamed. Darkness wrapped itself around her, followed by fear with the realization that she was unable to move. Was she dead? Was this what it felt like? The blackness blocking her vision shifted into a greyish blur; scents of dust and freshly waxed wood and blood. So much blood.

A muffled voice, a man’s. Wooden floor beneath her knees. A different man’s cologne. Alex, wasn’t it? Who... what was...

A splintered, hollow squelch as something piercing her heart was yanked free and her eyesight jolted into sharp focus. She was kneeling on a stage, her dark skirt torn and spilling around her. She was Claire. Claire Farington. Just a researcher, a librarian. Nobody. Someone was holding her arms tightly behind her back. Beside her knelt another man. Alexander. Right. She knew him. They’d talked and gone on a date or two and -

_Pleasure. One man before her, another in her mind. It’s wicked, but doesn’t everyone use other people? What’s the harm? He seems distracted, anyway; inattentive, inhuman. It’s not her name he mumbles at the end._

“ - my apologies for disrupting any business, or interfering with prior engagements you may have had this evening. It's unfortunate that the - “

A man was speaking, a voice that immediately drew her attention. His back was to her as he addressed a small crowd sitting in the theater seats below. Tall, a dark suit, dirty blond hair. That name, she remembered.

Sebastian LaCroix.

_Alex starts talking quickly. There was little tenderness before and there’s none now. There are people stopping him from living his life the way he wants, he says, people who have taken someone important from him. He’s not ordinary, he tells her. Everything is real, every shadow, every presence in the dark, every claw and fang and -_

“ - here because the laws that bind our society, the laws that are the fabric of our existence, have been broken.”

Claire could hear one of the men in the crowd whispering to another, though they were far away. Both were strong and rough-looking, surrounded by a small group of equally casually dressed people. The others in the crowd were more spaced apart and varied and she didn’t recognize any of them. The man called LaCroix paced back and forth across the stage, calmly, deliberately.

“ - within my rights to grant or deny the kindred of this city the privilege of siring. Many of you have come to me seeking permission, and I have - ”

_Alex pins her to the bed, teeth latched to her throat. He doesn’t care what she wants. None of this was ever about her, about whether she lives forever or if either of them lives at all. She’s a means to an end, something to be used. This is her last thought as he drains her, before his unlife trickles down her throat._

Because that was what she was, now. The creature in the dark, made myth and mockery and reality. A dead, living being, sustained by blood. A vampire. Giving shape to that realization, giving it a name inside her head, confused and frightened her.

“ - the accused that sits before you tonight was not refused permission. Indeed, my permission was never sought at all. He was caught shortly after the embrace of this childe.” LaCroix paused beside her, then, briefly glancing down at her as an unreadable expression passed over his cold features. There was something noble but debauched in the line of his jaw, in his full lips and ice-pale eyes. At that distance she could smell his blood, its scent of black iron soaked in richest wine. The ravenous thing beneath her skin whimpered and writhed. He looked away.

“It pains me to announce the sentence, as up to tonight I considered the accused a loyal and upstanding member of our organization. But, as some of you may know, the penalty for this transgression is death.”

Death, death, so much _death_ , as an animal’s instinct to survive reared up inside her. The guard behind her tightened his grip on her wrists. The fact that she was not concerned about Alex’s fate barely bothered her. He’d never cared what happened to her. But for her to die, now? No. She’d been curious, of course she had, but she hadn’t done anything wrong. Claire blinked hard, swallowing, her mouth dry. She could still feel LaCroix’s grip, spinning, falling, a silken noose around her throat. He’d told her to walk away from Alex, and she’d wanted to, but only to chase the deeper curiosity he himself had awakened. There had never been an easy, pleasant future in store for her. She’d always known that.

It couldn’t end here.

Strangers in the crowd muttered to each other. “Know that I am no more adjudicator than I am a servant to the law that governs us all,” LaCroix continued, shaking his head. “Let tonight's proceeding serve as a reminder to our community that we must adhere to the code that binds our society, lest we endanger all of our blood.” He walked past her toward Alex, and she startled with fear as she noticed the hulking, dark figure past them. There was nothing human about the massive creature and its flat red eyes, or the sword in its hand, the blade as tall as she was. Dread coiled tightly around her throat.

LaCroix leaned down toward Alex. “Forgive me,” he said, almost too quiet to hear, then he straightened. “Let the penalty commence.”

She stared as the giant creature raised his sword. Alexander said nothing, turning his head to look past her toward a balcony and a red-clothed figure there. With a sickening thud the huge blade sliced through his neck and hit the stage, and Claire shivered as she watched his body burn rapidly from within, a black skeleton fragmenting in a pile of ashes.

Voices in the crowd grew louder. Some turned their faces away from the stage as what was left of Alex’s body disintegrated.

“Which leads to the fate of the ill-begotten progeny.”

Her attention whipped back to LaCroix as he spoke of her again. _No._

“Without a sire,” he continued solemnly, “most childer are doomed to walk the earth never knowing their place, their responsibility, and, most importantly, the laws they must obey.”

A sacrifice. A tool. Surely she could be more than that. Everything within her tensed and screamed for survival.

_What are you afraid of, Claire?_

“Therefore, I have decided - “

“This is bullshit!” A shout came from the crowd, one of the rough men, pale dead muscles straining under a blue shirt as a few of his companions held him back. Several others in the audience stood, complaining. Confusion mixed with Claire’s fear. Who were this man and his friends? Why would they care what happened to a stranger? Or maybe they just disliked the whole thing, since they’d been restless from the time she’d opened her eyes.

LaCroix’s posture stiffened, but he waited silently for the initial outburst to wane. “If Mr. Rodriguez would let me finish. I have decided to let this kindred live.”

The guard behind her released her arms and Claire nearly fell forward. Relief and bewilderment rushed through her. Not tonight. Not yet.

“She shall be instructed in the ways of our kind,” LaCroix continued, still facing the crowd, “and be granted the same rights. Let no one say I am unsympathetic to the plights and causes of this community. I thank you all for -”

His voice faded out of her attention, the crowd blurring as their complaints quieted and they began to leave. What blood she had felt made of lightning, stinging and singing, surging wildly through her. She struggled to stand, the guard behind her helping her up, and she brushed off her torn dress. She saw LaCroix say something to one of the guards, then to the massive swordsman, before he slipped backstage. The swordsman walked past her and she shivered at the scent of his blood, like wet soil and rot.

“Come on.” One of the guards caught her elbow and she spun around too quickly, unsure of her reflexes. “Prince LaCroix’s got orders for you.” She had no chance to respond before the guard half-shoved her behind the great curtain and down a back hallway, through a door which he let slam shut after he pushed her ahead of him through it.

LaCroix stood there, turning to face her.

Something coiled and uncoiled in her gut, mired in a million questions. “I...” She coughed and cleared her throat. “I don’t know what to say.”

In a blink he was directly in front of her, gripping her chin between his thumb and forefinger and forcing her head upward to look at him. Startled, she stared at him, but he said nothing. His milk-pale eyes were impassive as he seemed to study her, then tilted her head to either side like he was examining an animal for purchase. His presence had a heaviness to it, a thickness like the air before a storm, the unease of it more noticeable now than when she’d first met him. Roughly he turned her head to make her meet his eyes again. Something strange flickered in them for a split second before he let her go.

“You can say ‘thank you,’” he said, his tone reserved. “The laws that govern our kind are clear and strict. I’ve shown you great clemency.”

“Clemency?” She frowned. “I don’t... none of this is my fault.”

“I warned you.”

“You told me to think about what I was doing.” Talking felt different, her tongue sliding past newly elongated canines. “That’s a little more vague than telling me I was about to be made into a vampire and that it carries a death penalty.”

“Vague?” His nostrils flared. “Were you not paying attention to what just happened tonight? I could not have told you more even if I’d wanted to, not without violating our rules of secrecy, our Masquerade. The fact that I insinuated anything at all is more than any kindred owes a mortal.”

Claire shook her head. “You knew what Alex was really planning, then. You must have. Why did you let him do it?”

“My men followed you. When a crime had been committed, they acted.”

“They let him kill and... remake me. I wanted to know but I didn’t ask for this.” An involuntary tremor cut through her. “His blood... it tasted like ashes. He held me down.”

A muscle in LaCroix’s jaw tightened. “That is irrelevant.”

“I screamed. I must have. Your... men would have heard me.”

“And if they’d interrupted before the Embrace was over, you’d be dead.” He sighed sharply. “You ought to be grateful that I’ve done anything at all. Your sire’s death and my choosing to spare you makes me directly responsible for you now, can’t you see that? That’s my neck beneath the sheriff’s sword, for a fledgling I didn’t create.”

Questions and sensations and hungers churned inside her, distracting her. “Why do it, then?”

“Sparing you has a certain political expediency to it, but one I suspect is hardly worth the risk. I’d decided to let you live before you were even brought on stage.” His voice grew slightly quieter. “There is some degree of potential in you, I believe. At the charity event, I...” He paused, then shook his head. “But this is hardly the time. What you need now is guidance and education. What I said is true - so often the sireless are lost. We’ll not allow that to happen here.” He gestured to the exit door. “I’ve ordered a cab for you. It will take you to Santa Monica, where you’ll meet with an agent named Mercurio. I’ve had a small haven set up for you there. I’ll email you further orders and resources to help you understand your nature.”

“Okay.” Claire rubbed her temples.

“When your first task is done, you may return to me here in downtown. Understood?”

“I... yes.”

LaCroix sighed. “This is your trial, Claire. Prove that sparing you was more than an empty whim.”

She forced herself to meet his eyes. “I will.”

“Good. Don’t come back until you do.” He pushed the door open.

Hunger spiked upward in her as she smelled the fresh air, and somewhere nearby, human blood. “ _À bientôt_ ,” she added in a low voice as she started to walk past him.

He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around, far too fast for her to react. Something sparked and vanished in the dark of his eyes, and he let her go. “Good evening, fledgling,” he said in a clipped tone, turning away and disappearing into the depths of the theater.

She exited, and immediately noticed a large vampire standing by a chain-link fence, his appearance unkempt, an incongruous cigarette in his hand. His raucous laughter hurt her ears. “What a scene, man! Hoo-wee! Then they just plop you out here like a naked baby in the woods. How ‘bout that. Ah, look, kiddo, this is - ”

Claire ignored him and kept walking. Her cab was waiting, and before that, blood, mortal blood, singing and calling to her from around the corner.

“Hey, kid, where you goin’?” The vampire huffed. “Well, your funeral, then.”

The human male standing by his broken-down car was practically a gift. Easy prey, and she needed no lesson to know what to do. The bones-deep instinct of the creature within her took over and she bent him backward, fangs sinking deep into pliable flesh, mouth and tongue lapping as much of his sweet blood as he could afford to give without dying. As she laid his unconscious body down on the street, she could feel it rushing through her, a thick rivulet of red running down her chin in the dark, fire and life and power.


	3. Chapter 3

LaCroix was occupied with myriad problems of varying degrees of importance to himself and the kindred harassing him about them, as always. Evidently the Prince of Los Angeles was seen as more the head of a complaints department than a leader to be respected and followed - but then, respect was an endangered species these nights. The twice-damned Anarchs were a prime example of that. An unwashed, failing rabble, flailing about with their slogans, surly attitudes, and gross indulgence. Their naivete of reality made them no less dangerous, both to Camarilla rule and his rule specifically.

Nines Rodriguez. The name made LaCroix’s lip curl in disgust. The Anarchs treated him like their Prince, a populist savior for the ordinary kindred, a vampire Guevara and Galt in one. It was all part of Rodriguez’s own grab for power, surely. No kindred was that idealistic. No, he preached equality from one side of his mouth and lapped up their praise with the other. And his insolence... to dare speak out the way he had... it only increased the threat he posed. LaCroix doubted Nines’ opposition to the fledgling’s possible execution was altruistic at all. It was a ploy, an appeal to the illogical passions of his adherents. The poor childe, all alone, murdered by the wicked Camarilla and its cruel Prince, et cetera. Good against evil. The story wrote itself.

Of course, he had never intended to kill the orphaned childe. The delay in announcing her fate, the drama of it, was only a way to illicit a reaction from those who opposed him. Let them throw themselves into the light. It made it easier to see while he was crushing them. The fledgling, though... Claire. What he’d glimpsed in her had only grown darker since her embrace. She could be a useful tool, politically and perhaps through her own power, if he could maintain control of her. Every faction in Los Angeles would doubtless be angling for her, if only for what she represented.

A bright young fledgling - granted his mercy and fighting for him - would be a slap in the Anarchs’ collective faces, but it was not enough. There had to be another way to restrain them, or to topple their leader. For all their nonsensical collectivist talk, Nines was the so-called movement’s spearhead. If he fell, the rest would easily be brought to heel.

The question was, how?

LaCroix startled from his musings as his phone buzzed with an email notification.

> _From: Claire Farington_  
>  _Re: A favor_  
>  Absolutely, good as done. Also, werewolves??

He snorted. He’d given Claire the task of retrieving werewolf blood, somehow obtained by humans, from the Santa Monica hospital.

> _Re: A favor_  
>  Is that a question or an exclamation?  
>  -SL

 

> _From: Claire Farington_  
>  _Re: A favor_  
>  Both!! And here I thought Voerman was using hyperbole. On my way to the hospital now.   

 

> _Re: A favor_  
>  I see Santa Monica is giving you an interesting education. As for the question, yes, werewolves are most definitely a very real and very dangerous thing. Pray that you never meet one. As to it as an exclamation, I am not certain if you intend fear or excitement. Fear would be more appropriate but tone is so easily lost these nights.  
>  -SL

The phone rang in his hand; it was Bertram Tung, one of his main Nosferatu agents. A necessary nuisance. LaCroix answered. “I’ve not turned on the news, but I assume this means the warehouse is no more?”

“You really should, it’s quite the sight,” Tung replied, his sewer rat’s voice a constant purring whine, like a neglected engine. “A live performance of that Deep Purple song, with a whole lot more blood.” He smacked his lips. “Brought your fledgling back an hour ago. My cleanup crew’s reporting back now. Not a living soul in sight, apparently, casualties including a couple dead shovelheads.”

“Astrolite will do that.”

The Nosferatu chuckled. “Pretty sure half of ‘em were dead before that was ever set off, boss. Laying in pools of bloody vomit, that kinda thing. That blood magic shit gives me the creeps. But hey, it gets the job done, right?”

LaCroix raised an eyebrow. This had been Claire’s first major assignment, and he’d never specified what approach she ought to use. Evidently she’d already picked up some of her clan’s unique discipline of thaumaturgy. Interesting. Surely Strauss had wasted no time in contacting her, then. “Yes, it does.”

“Yep.” Tung cleared his throat. “Uh, so... any word on what we're doing about the boat yet? My guys checking that out, or...?”

Of course. The _other_ problem, one seemingly preoccupying half of Los Angeles’ kindred. An ancient object with the overly grand name of the Ankaran Sarcophagus was on its way toward the city, on a ship called the _Elizabeth Dane_. The coffin had already begun casting a shadow over Los Angeles, with legends and rumors and speculation over who or what might be inside becoming a popular topic over the past several nights. Most of it was the usual doom-and-Gehenna fearmongering, and the sarcophagus could very well be nothing but a dusty antique, but still. Anything that could possibly effect the kindred under his rule required his attention. Unfortunately. “I’ve not decided what precise actions we’ll take. When I have, I will let you know.”

“It’s got people a little worried down here. Wouldn’t hurt to - ”

“I am aware of that.”

“Yeah, well.” He sniffed. “Got a few strings I can pull pretty easily to get somebody on board, if you like. Send the kid maybe, yeah? Could be entertaining watching a blood witch try to sneak around, heh.”

LaCroix rolled his eyes. “We’ll see.”

Tung laughed, a grating, snide noise, but there was a note of nervousness behind it. “May want to sort that out sooner than later, boss. Word on the street is there’s been some kind of... disturbance on board. They’ve made a call to be met by cops when they weigh anchor.”

The creature within him murmured. “Petty kine issues, most likely.” Something was wrong on that ship. Something...

“Sure, but - “

“Repeating the same question will not get a different response from me, Tung. When I’ve chosen a course of action, I’ll let you know. That’s it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get that, just letting you know one other thing. Your fledgling mentioned the name ‘Beckett’ when she got back from the warehouse. Supposedly Transylvania Jones himself is in town.”

LaCroix pinched the bridge of his nose. Just what he needed. “And this is from Farington? I am certain she’s never met the Gangrel, she could be mistaken.”

“Don’t think so. She said she ran into him after the explosion, that he introduced himself by name. Black hair, glasses, snarky attitude, questions about the apocalypse, the works. Pretty sure it’s the legitimate article.”

Christ have mercy. “Look into it, then. See if he truly is in Los Angeles and what he may be doing.”

“I’m all over it, boss.”

“Update me when you know more than gossip.” LaCroix hung up, rubbing his temple.

Two email notifications buzzed in. 

> _From: Claire Farington_  
>  _Re: A favor_  
>  I’m finding that, in practice, fear and excitement are pretty much the same thing. Don’t you think?

 

> _From: Claire Farington_  
>  _Re: A favor_  
>  Okay, the blood’s in my mailbox. All’s well. The warehouse is all set, too. Bertram Tung said he was going to call you? Is there anything else you need me to do here, or am I clear to come downtown?

 

> _Re: A favor_  
>  Excellent. Your assistance is much appreciated. I’ll send a courier shortly, with your reward as well. Yes, Tung just called about the warehouse. It seems you’ve done your job efficiently, but with a great deal of bloodshed. That is well and good in this case, but not always the best technique. Mortals are as easy to deceive as they are to kill.  
>  -SL

He hesitated, then clicked to respond to the first message as well.

> _Re: A favor_  
>  They can be. It depends on the circumstances.  
>  -SL

He gazed out the window of Venture Tower for only a moment before the replies buzzed in.

> _From: Claire Farington_  
>  _Re: A favor_  
>  Understood. Sorry if that wasn’t what you had in mind. I’d thought it would be an excellent arena to practice the new skills I’ve learned. This Thaumaturgy is absolutely amazing. I can’t wait to learn more about it.

 

> _From: Claire Farington_  
>  _Re: A favor_  
>  I’m sure it does.

His grip tightened on his phone, and he waited a moment before responding. 

> _Re: A favor_  
>  Come downtown at your earliest convenience.  
>  -SL

 

> _From: Claire Farington_  
>  _Re: A favor_  
>  I'm already on my way.


	4. Chapter 4

Claire’s eyes snapped open. She was lying on her back in an alley, a filthy-looking vampire’s foot pressed hard just below her collarbone, two other vampires staring hungrily down at her. Sabbat. Her head throbbed, a foul taste in the back of her throat. The vampires smelled of fetid earth, muttering to each other about what torturous way they should use to dispose of her.

“Think you could blow up our warehouse and get away with it?” one growled, bloody spittle at the corner of his mouth. “Huh, lick?”

“Let’s pull out its eyes and its tongue and its teeth.”

“I want its teeth. Camarilla _fuck_.” One of them stomped down hard on her chest and she grunted. She closed her eyes, feeling the blood within her and within her attackers, letting it surge and flow inside her until she was ready to -

A gunshot boomed through the air, startling her from her concentration. One of the vampires gripped the side of his head, dark blood oozing between his fingers. “Son of a bitch!”

Claire turned her head as best she could to see the interrupting kindred from the theater standing there, a large handgun aimed at the Sabbat vampires. “Leave,” he said.

“There’s three of us, Rodriguez,” one of the Sabbat spat. The gun-wielding vampire was Nines Rodriguez, then - leader of a rebellious group of kindred called the Anarchs. “What are you gonna do? Shoot us?”

Rodriguez patted the side of his belt, where he had a grenade hanging.

“This ain’t over.” The Sabbat kicked her, hard, then stepped back. “We’ll find you. And you, Rodriguez. You’re both dead. Nobody messes with the Sabbat and lives!”

“Keep moving,” Rodriguez said coldly.

The Sabbat started to leave, and Claire slowly got up.

“Trouble seems to like you,” Rodriguez remarked, then stopped as one of the Sabbat leaped for him, getting a gun barrel in the gut for its attempt. “Good effort.” He pulled the trigger. “Execution needs a little work.” The Sabbat burst into a mess of ashen flame, flaking into a small pile on the ground as his companions fled. Rodriguez turned back to Claire. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks. That's what I was going for.” Claire brushed off her clothes.

“Heh. Name’s Nines.”

“I know. I remember you, from the theater.” She ran a hand through her mussed hair. “You’re one of the Anarchs. Bertram Tung brought me up to speed, mostly.”

"Sure he did." Rodriguez holstered his gun. “That’s twice I’ve saved your ass, newbie.”

“Once, actually, but thank you.”

The Anarch snorted. “Right. Keep telling yourself that. Me, I’ve got things to do. Why don’t you pay me a visit at the Last Round tonight? It’s time you heard the real story.”

Some kind of vampire bar, maybe? That could be interesting, but she certainly didn’t need anyone else telling her what to think. “I’ll check my schedule.”

“You do that.” Rodriguez sighed and started off down the street. “Stay out of trouble, kid.”

 

* * *

   
Claire already knew which building was Venture Tower, home of the ‘LaCroix Foundation’ and all that she now knew it masked. Even the name, a basic anagram for the clan that so often led the Camarilla, the Ventrue. She’d read as much as she could about kindred, both her own clan of Tremere and others, but there was still so much to learn. It was an entirely new universe, one that had operated under her nose all her life - all of humankind’s life, practically - and it would take more than a few nights to grasp it all. Assuming she didn’t get killed, again, she might have an eternity of knowledge ahead of her.

_What aim can there truly be other than power itself?_

The black marble atrium and its surprisingly human desk security led upward to the penthouse floor of the tallest building in Los Angeles. From her impressions so far, she assumed the Camarilla would have settled for nothing less. She was startled as the elevator opened and she came face to face with the massive vampire creature from the theater, a beast she now knew was LaCroix’s sheriff - a protector and enforcer of Camarilla law. The creature only looked at her, narrowed his eyes, then grunted and moved aside so she could walk through the doors behind it.

They opened on a cavernous room, bright and gleaming in opulent white marble and gold and rich wood. A long carpet, lined on either side by a few armchairs and tables and large oil paintings high on the wall, stretched straight ahead toward a table-style desk and a massive bank of windows. Behind the desk sat Sebastian LaCroix, a phone, laptop, and assorted papers scattered in front of him.

“There you are,” he said, glancing up. His simple dark suit seemed out of place in the decadent space, more like what she’d imagine Versailles might be like than an office. The city spread out below and behind him, endless shadow with small lights speckled across it. He studied her for a moment, long fingers steepled in front of him. “You were delayed.”

“Yes.” How quickly did news travel among kindred? “Just a few Sabbat. They’re gone now.”

A jaw muscle twitched. “They attacked you.”

Claire shrugged. “I blew up their warehouse and killed some of them. From what I’ve gathered, they’re not very forgiving.”

“That doesn’t mean they can assault my agent in the streets of my city with impunity. It’s insulting.” He frowned. “And it has come to my attention that Nines Rodriguez interfered.”

“He did, yes. I’m not sure if he was tracking the Sabbat or intending to intercept me; the timing was a little convenient. He did kill one of the Sabbat, though.”

LaCroix shook his head, hardly bothering to hide his disgust. “He so does love to throw that cretinous charm of his brashly about. Tell me, what exactly did Mr. Rodriguez say?”

“He asked me to go see him at the Last Round. He also said he’d saved my life twice. I corrected him.”

“Did you, now? Interesting.”

“I try to be.”

“Oh, you are.” LaCroix leaned back slightly in his chair. “Take the Anarch up on his offer. I can almost hear the cries of ‘fascist oppressor’ from here if I don’t allow you to listen to the by-the-numbers rhetoric he’s so desperate to spew. I can trust you to make the right choice regardless of what you hear, can I not?”

She tilted her chin up. “Of course, Prince LaCroix.”

“Mm.” He paused for a moment, then shook his head, seemingly changing his mind about what he was going to say. “There is a task more important than observing the Anarchs, however; one I feel should be given to my most promising young agent. Have you heard about the cargo ship that was towed into port recently, the _Elizabeth Dane_?”

“Very little, to be honest. I’ve heard it’s swarming with police, now, but I’m not sure why. Something about... something they were transporting? An artifact?”

“The Ankaran Sarcophagus, yes. It has darkened our community with whispers and rumors for some nights now. Even the Nosferatu know little. It’s imperative that we address this lack of information immediately.” He sighed. “Now, I’m not one to predicate a decision based on conjecture, so what I need is fact - and, more importantly, evidence that the occurrences on the _Dane_ were not supernatural and in no way relate to this Ankaran Sarcophagus.”

Claire’s brow creased. “I can certainly take a look at it for you.”

“Good. Now, you may sense something peculiar about the sarcophagus. Many of the city’s kindred have reported an uneasiness in the air since the _Dane_ ’s arrival. Regardless, do not under any circumstances open the sarcophagus. I also require whatever report the police have compiled thus far, and the ship’s cargo manifest. This task requires discretion, Claire. The last thing we need is the police aware of our presence, so you cannot wholesale slaughter everyone like you did at the warehouse.”

“I understand. Again, I’m sorry if that wasn’t what you’d wanted.”

LaCroix waved his hand. “I said it’s fine. If it was not, you would know. You need never wonder if you’ve displeased me.”

Claire tilted her head. She could feel her face grow a fraction warmer and wondered if vampires could blush. “Is the opposite also true?”

He said nothing for a moment, studying her, his pale eyes unreadable. She noticed his grip on the arms of his chair tighten slightly. “That remains to be seen.” He cleared his throat. “In the meantime, the _Dane_. Go to the beach in Santa Monica. Tung has made the arrangements.”

“Yes, sir.”

LaCroix turned back to his work without another word, but as she left she could feel his eyes boring into her.

 

* * *

 

Claire did not head directly back to Santa Monica, nor to the Anarch bar. There was somewhere important she wanted to stop, first.

_Dark blood, our curse, a light this verse / Such power I sense in one so young / Come find me where burns the mystical sun._

She slipped the invitation back into her pocket as she passed through a set of green doors, a purplish light emanating from an ox-eye window above. Inside was quiet and richly decorated in dark, warm colors. No one greeted her, so she ventured further in, past heavily laden bookcases and labyrinthine hallways. She blinked and found herself at a set of double doors, a fireplace crackling behind them.

“Hello?” She knocked gently on the door frame.

“You may come in, neonate.”

Curious, Claire stepped inside. It was a study, dim and cozy, thick with the scents of old books and wood smoke. She felt immediately at home.

“Greetings.” A bald man in a scarlet coat and gloves stood before the fireplace, its light gleaming on the lenses of his glasses, his bearing utterly dignified. “Might I assume you received my invitation?” His voice was deep and calm. “I have been looking forward to meeting you for some time.”

“You’re Regent Strauss, then.” She smiled and bowed her head. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“I am indeed. And you as well, neonate. Welcome.”

“Thank you.” She glanced around the room. “What is this place? A... chantry, it’s called?”

“Yes indeed. Forgive me, I forget that you were not embraced within the Pyramid, our social structure of apprenticeship and power.” Strauss smiled thoughtfully. “We share the same blood, you and I, but there is much you have yet to learn about our clan.”

“Definitely. What little I have learned is fascinating. I understand that how I’ve entered this world wasn’t proper, but I’m glad that this was the clan my... sire was from.”

“Yes. Alexander.” Strauss shook his head. “A troubled man. His fate was most unfortunate. We will speak more of him later, young one. I am more than happy to answer any questions you may have about that matter, and about our clan itself, as much as I am able.”

“Thank you very much.” The regent seemed quite reserved, but his cordiality put her at ease, despite how intimidating his level of power was. “I’m sorry that I can’t stay long right now. I’m on my way to do a particular task for the Prince, but I really wanted to come meet you, and I’ll be back again as soon as I can.”

“That is quite understandable. Surely Prince LaCroix believes you owe a debt to him for his... mercy.”

“That’s part of it. But it’s work for the Camarilla, so isn’t that what any decent vampire is supposed to be doing anyway?”

Strauss tilted his head. “One hopes that the Camarilla and the Prince are interchangeable in their goals, but our world is not always an ideal one. Do take care, young one, and return as soon as you are able. There is much to discuss.”

Her brow creased. What exactly did he mean? “Of course, sir. Thank you again.”

After a few wrong turns, Claire made her way out into the night. Rain splattered on steaming pavement, headlights reflecting in shallow puddles, her thoughts as much a maze as the chantry's hallways.


	5. Chapter 5

It was going to be ugly. There was no way around it. To be fair, the plan did have a certain elegant efficiency: killing two vampires with one stone, then crushing that one stone in a single fist. Assuming everything worked out, which was always a fairly large assumption to make. It required a level of blind acceptance on the part of several enemies; the Anarchs were simple creatures, but the Kuei-jin were as yet a mystery.

It also heavily relied on the fledgling Claire Farington, without actually telling her anything. In fact, telling her anything would defeat the whole plan. Not everyone was a good liar, and he suspected Claire was not. She’d certainly been forthcoming with him, disarmingly so. No, the only way was to have her legitimately think that what she was saying was the truth. All that mattered was the end goal of survival. And for a Ventrue, only power ensured survival.

Alistair Grout’s absence from public kindred life was noticed more quickly than LaCroix had expected. Other Malkavians in the Camarilla’s ranks had recognized it almost immediately, muttering to each other in their damnable riddles. Then the primogen, Gary Golden of the Nosferatu first, since undoubtedly his clanmates had been listening to their Malkavian fellows and begun to wonder. Golden, Strauss, and the primogen of the Toreador and his own Ventrue clan had all requested a meeting, laying out their concerns about Grout’s fate. Normally, this would have only irritated LaCroix, but it played directly into his plan of sending Claire to investigate Grout’s mansion. In addition to irritating him, of course.

She arrived as LaCroix was dismissing the primogen, Strauss nodding to her as he passed. He supposed it was only natural that a kindred interact with the leader of her clan, but Strauss’ influence over her was an element LaCroix was uncertain of. The Tremere were notoriously secretive and tended to put their clan above the Camarilla. It was a concern he mentally noted for later.

Claire stopped in front of his desk, her face clearly showing her curiosity about the departing kindred.

“I don’t have much time to spare at the moment,” he said, smoothing out papers on his desk. “The bullet points, please.”

“There was blood on the lip of the sarcophagus, and all over the deck. I’ve brought all the paperwork I could find that might have useful information in it.” She hesitated. “Honestly, it looked like it had been opened.”

“Opened?” LaCroix frowned. That was a frightening thought. “Let’s... not jump to conclusions. Leave the reports here, I’ll sort this mess later. Good work.”

“Thanks.” Claire tilted her head. “Is something going on? Those were the primogen, right?”

“Yes, unfortunately. Minus one, which is the reason for their concern.” He sighed. “Evidently Alistair Grout, the Malkavian primogen, has either forgotten how to answer his phone, or is missing.”

“Hmm. Not to suggest the obvious, but have they checked between the tiles?”

“No, but you’re about to. His mansion is in the Hollywood Hills. His behavior and home are... eccentric, to say the least, and he’s developed a paranoid bent lately.” Oh, whatever for? “You may have to check under every bed in the place for him.”

Claire shook her head. “Malkavians.”

“Quite. One need not spend much time in kindred society to develop that opinion. Also, you don’t need to bring Grout here, simply have him contact myself or one of his fellow primogen. That’s all.” LaCroix started to glance through the reports she’d brought, then stopped as he realized she was still standing there, looking at him. “...What?”

Her brow creased. “Is everything all right?”

“Is... that a rhetorical question?”

“No, I was just...” She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

What was this nervousness? Some qualms about the assignment? Her as witness was the only option. If he had to, he’d dominate her into -

“Are _you_ okay?”

LaCroix stared at her from across the desk.

“I guess that...” Blood rose to her cheeks. Incredible. “You seem more distracted than usual. If something’s wrong, maybe there’s something I can do. I like being busy, I don’t mind.”

He said nothing for a moment, startled as he was. Nothing hid in her golden eyes. She was naive. Innocent. The monster inside him whined. “If my problem is distraction, I’m afraid that’s not something you’re capable of lessening, Claire,” he said quietly. “You might be the worst agent for that task.”

“Is that a compliment in this case?”

She had to leave. The plan required timing and besides, there were lines that kindred simply didn’t cross, things they didn’t do. Wicked things, detestable things, things that the beast beneath his skin was desperate to try with her. “That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether failure at this particular task is an acceptable outcome.”

“Isn’t that up to you?” She leaned forward slightly, resting her hands on the desk opposite his. “You’re the one in charge.”

Christ. Not now. He blinked hard, forcing rationality to take over. Survival. No one would survive if this didn’t work out. “Which unfortunately means that mundane matters have to supersede... other things, at times. The issue of the Malkavian may be time-sensitive. The primogen will have my head.” The disappointment that darkened her expression only made his hunger worse.

She sighed. “Of course, Prince LaCroix.”

“No, no, you don’t...” He felt hollow. “As much as I appreciate respect, it’s not... the formality isn’t required. Not when you and I are alone.” He couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him by his given name, certainly not in a positive context. “Please.”

There was so much sweetness still in her eyes. He hoped he wouldn’t bleed it from her. “Yes, Sebastian,” she said softly. His darkness whimpered.

“Thank you.” He forced himself to straighten, to increase the space between them. “Go, then hurry back, hmm? After this damnable business is over, we can discuss other matters.”

She mustered a smile. “All right.”

He watched her leave, then sank into his chair, rubbing his temples.

 

* * *

 

  
LaCroix spent the next several hours poring over the _Elizabeth Dane_ reports, doing other miscellaneous work, and keeping himself occupied until Claire would return with her testimony. There would be much to do, politically, when she came back, but he could do nothing about that issue until then. He wasn’t supposed to know what she was going to find, after all.

Claire was right. He _was_ distracted.

An email’s buzzing alert and he grasped his phone immediately. From the strange Kuei-jin leader, Ming Xiao. He laughed bitterly at his own disappointment.

 

> _From: X._  
>  _ < no subject >_  
>  My role in this matter is complete. The thorn has been plucked out, then the man was seen, and spoken to, as requested. I believe the eye’s testimony will be clear.

LaCroix deleted the message without replying and returned to his work. The police accounts from the _Dane_ were disturbing, to say the least. A massacre, committed by... who? Or what? The thought made him deeply uneasy, although he would not be a Prince if he wasn’t proficient at turning threats into opportunities.

There was also the matter of a second item from the same archaeological dig in Turkey, a small box listed on the cargo manifest but not mentioned later. If it was unaccounted for, it could be a problem as well. The Ankaran Sarcophagus itself had been slated for delivery at Los Angeles’ natural history museum. A few messages to his Nosferatu agents confirmed that it had arrived and was being studied in an examination room deep within the museum.

The thing needed to be in his hands as soon as possible. If something... supernatural was involved... the humans could not open it, and no other faction could get control of it. They would have to move quickly to secure it, and that meant Claire. What other agent could he trust with such a task?

Or at all?

He smelled her first, the heavy air of fire and smoke nearly masking the rain and old book scent of her blood. She was a mess, hair pulled back, blood spattered on her cheek, the edges of her skirt singed. LaCroix frowned. He certainly hadn’t told Xiao to set fire to the mansion.

“Grout’s dead,” she said, rubbing at the blood on her cheek and failing to remove it.

“ _Dead_? What?”

She sniffed, something a little haunted in her expression. Presumably the Malkavian’s mansion had been disturbing. “There was a hunter. He tried to burn the place down, with me in it. He says hello, by the way. Something about how he’s going to ‘cleanse your black soul’, apparently. Said his name is Bach.”

 _That_ was unexpected. Mercy, just what he needed. More complications to weave into the plan. He rubbed his temple. “Just when I think he’s lost the scent... So, Bach killed Grout to draw me out.”

“Maybe. Who is he, anyway?”

LaCroix shrugged. “He’s a hunter. They stalk and kill our kind to appease their ‘God.’ But like many mortals, their so-called faith is nothing but a conduit through which they quench their killing urge.” But this wouldn’t do, not at all. It had to be Nines she blamed. “Who else would have killed Grout?”

She hesitated. “When I arrived, I saw Nines Rodriguez leaving. He was acting... oddly. The hunter claimed he hadn’t killed Grout, and I don’t know why he wouldn’t take credit if he had, so... I don’t know.”

“Look at me, Claire.” Good. She was walking straight into it. “Are you sure it was Nines Rodriguez? Because, if it was, the consequences... Do you know where this might lead? Do you really have any idea?”

She nodded slowly. “You’d have to call for his death. A... hunt, right? A blood hunt?”

Perfect. “Yes, and in most cases I’d call it against a murderer immediately, but this... The Anarchs of this city may interpret such an action to be a declaration of war. I do not want a war with them, but...” He sighed. “This decision will take some time. I’ll have to confer with the primogen right away.” Rodriguez’s death warrant was already written, of course. He just had to wait what seemed an appropriately ponderous length of time before issuing it.

“Yes, of course.” She swallowed hard. “It was him, though. I don’t know what he’s playing at or why he would’ve killed Grout, but it was definitely Rodriguez I saw.”

“I believe you. The consequences are mine either way. Your task is to tell me the truth, and you have. I will bear the fallout. It’s my responsibility.”

“Okay.” She tugged at her ponytail, trying to fix it. She looked so plaintive, the sweet thing. “What should I do in the meantime?”

“Yes, I’ve been looking at the information from the _Dane_. We must get the sarcophagus into Camarilla possession immediately, for the safety of all this city’s kindred. It’s at the Museum of Natural History - I’ve had one of the Nosferatu forward all the relevant details to your email. You’ll need to act quickly and without being seen.”

“Of course. I’ll go right away.”

“Perhaps... not looking like that, though. I’d nearly forgotten to tell you. I’ve arranged for you to have an apartment here, downtown, one I think will be much more to your liking than that Santa Monica cubbyhole. I’ve already had your things moved here, with a few additions, if you’d like to clean up before going to the museum.”

She flounced her skirt. “I’m pretty sure the disheveled look is in right now. I’ll check with the next Toreador I see, if I can get them to shut up long enough to ask a question.”

“That might be difficult.” LaCroix paused, then shook his head. “Come here a moment.”

Claire hesitated, then walked around his desk to face him with a quizzical expression.

“I doubt even fashion would ignore blood on a young lady’s face.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket, forcing himself to remain neatly controlled. “It might raise questions we’d rather not answer.”

“Oh.” Her pale skin reddened. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Hold still.” Carefully he wiped at the blood on her cheek as she obediently turned her head. It took far too much of his inner control than he was willing to admit. He sighed, then chuckled at the absurdity of it.

“What?”

“You’re a bit of a wreck,” he admitted, smiling a little despite the war under his skin.

She shrugged and shook her head. “Thaumaturgy’s messy, what can I say?”

“I thought I told you not to move?”

“Sorry.”

This had been a terrible idea, Masquerade be damned. She trusted him. It was unbearable. His free hand was balled into a fist, nails digging into his palm. Gently he wiped at the last bit of blood with the pad of his thumb, staring at her too long as his jaw clenched and unclenched. Her skin felt like cool silk.

He wanted to devour her.

“Better,” he managed, stuffing the handkerchief into his pocket and drawing back from her. He ran a hand over his face, surprised to find it trembling. “Off you go, then.”

“Thank you, Sebastian.” Her ponytail bobbed as she turned to go. “See you soon.”

“ _À bientôt, ma fille douce_ ,” he murmured as the doors closed behind her.


	6. Chapter 6

The museum’s basement was filled with endless wooden crates and boxes, and Claire wondered what might be in them as she walked past toward the room at the far end. A quick turn of the key and -

The Ankaran Sarcophagus was gone. The crate it had been in remained, but no sarcophagus.

Movement in the corner of her vision startled her, and Claire instinctively clenched her hands for a blood strike, but she relaxed slightly as she realized who it was. Beckett, the Gangrel scholar. “What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded.

Beckett shrugged. “You tell me. I can’t understand why someone would go through the trouble of stealing a box with a very ancient corpse - this city’s not _that_ dull.”

“But, conveniently, here you are. What have you done with it?”

“Please.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I came here to study this Ankaran Sarcophagus everyone’s so riled up about. My guess, from what I’ve read about it, is that it’s a mummified Mesopotamian king. I needed confirmation.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Aren’t you the one here to steal it?”

Claire bristled. “Placing it under Camarilla protection isn’t stealing.”

“No, of course not.” The Gangrel’s voice dripped sarcasm as always. “I’m inclined to believe that _someone_ has stolen it, however.”

“Clearly.” Great. She’d begun to feel the city’s unease, like everyone else, but what precisely was going on with this ancient artifact? Who could have taken it? “Did you see anyone?”

“Anyone carrying a twelve-foot coffin, you mean? No, I’m afraid not. I was evidently late to the scene of the crime.” His orange beasts’ eyes glinted behind dark glasses. “Tsk. Such a pity, really. I so wanted to examine it. All this speculation about its containing an Antediluvian and being a portent of Gehenna is making me cringe.”

“We can discuss kindred prophecy later, Beckett. I have to find this thing.” And she’d have to report back that it was gone, with all the other nonsense LaCroix was dealing with. Wonderful.

“Maybe it left tracks. Or would you like to dust for fingerprints? I’m sure I have a magnifying glass in my bag.”

Claire huffed and marched off, leaving a chuckling Beckett behind her.

 

* * *

 

She found LaCroix gazing out the window, hands folded behind his back. For a moment she paused, studying the broad, sharp line of his shoulders, his rigid dark silhouette. No one seemed to truly like the man; the best she’d found was tolerance. It bothered her. She supposed that was partly because she spent a great deal of her time working for him. Every time she met a new kindred she was faced with scorn for who she was and who she served. It felt like she should defend him, but that wouldn’t help her achieve anything. So she kept silent as much as possible. Let them call her a Cammy do-girl, a whelp, LaCroix’s bitch. It didn’t matter. She’d keep working toward what was best for them, whether they liked it or not.

And LaCroix... she had such strange feelings about him. He drew her in like nothing else, when he was coldly controlled and when that control started to crack. Something about him made her bold, both with him and in her work. It felt like she scarcely knew him, still, so much below the surface, so many secrets. She’d always been curious, Tremere blood only strengthening that drive. He was a puzzle, subtle cold power but black fire within, a blazing abyss, frightening and magnetic. She wanted to know the depths of him. Let it burn her.

She almost hoped it would.

“Sebastian?”

His shoulders tensed, then relaxed slightly. “The blood hunt on Nines Rodriguez for the murder of Alistair Grout will be called,” he said without turning. “Rodriguez’s execution is only a matter of time. I have lit the fuse. If war breaks out, it’s my head they will sharpen the pikes for.”

“They can do what they like.”

“Mm.” One corner of his mouth quirked in a sardonic smile. “And what will you do, little fledgling? Fight them all?”

Blood sang through her. “What do you think?”

He faced her then. The perpetual dark circles beneath his eyes seemed darker, and he sighed. “At least I know you’ve alleviated one burden from me. Do you need assistance bringing the sarcophagus up to my office?”

“I... no.” She steeled herself. “The sarcophagus has... been stolen.”

LaCroix stared for a second, nostrils flaring. “Stolen?”

“It - “

“ _Stolen_?!” His eyes narrowed, anger consuming him. She had not seen him in a true rage before. It was bitter, chaotic. “How - who would...” Something seemed to spark in his mind. “Oh... Gary. Gary, you treasonous maggot! I should have anticipated your treachery, sewer rat!”

Claire searched her memory for that name. “Gary... Golden, the Nosferatu primogen?”

“The Nosferatu were responsible for finding out where the sarcophagus was taken after the _Dane_ , and for getting keys to the museum. They were the only ones who knew.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s obvious to me now. My mistake.”

“I’ll track it down. It’s not a small object, I’m sure that - “

“I want him found,” LaCroix spat. “I want him... _found_.”

“I’ll find him, Sebastian.”

“The sarcophagus could be exploited, causing who knows what catastrophe to this city. If it were to fall into the wrong hands...”

“I’ll find it, too,” she insisted.

He sighed deeply, his initial rage fading. “The Nosferatu lurk in the filth below the streets of Hollywood, but not even I know just where they hide. Hollywood is unfortunately lacking in any Camarilla loyalties.”

She nodded. “Anarch territory, right?”

“Yes. Its baron is a Toreador named Isaac Abrams. He’s more... civil than the Anarchs downtown, but nonetheless he wears his mistrust of me on his sleeve. He may know how to contact the Nosferatu.” LaCroix turned back toward the window. “Just... find Gary and get him to talk. We have to get that sarcophagus. It could be used against us.”

“I will. I won’t come back empty-handed.”

He said nothing, clenched fists shaking almost imperceptibly in front of him.

Claire stood there for a moment, then gently laid her hand on his arm. “It’s - “

Before she could react, LaCroix grabbed her and slammed her against the window frame hard enough to split a hairline fracture in the thick glass. He stared down at her, pale eyes wide. “I’m sorry.” His voice was almost frightened, its edge broken. He loosened his grip but did not let her go. “I didn’t mean to... Have I hurt you? Are you all right?”

She shifted, startled and sore but unharmed. “Hurting me is going to take more effort than that.”

Something wild gleamed in his eyes. “You’re rather wicked for someone so kind, did you know that?”

She could feel her cheeks growing warm. “I wouldn’t be here with you if I wasn’t.”

He laughed, hollow and ragged, pressing her back against the wall. “What was it you said, about fear and excitement?” He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear, his scent of iron weighing down her senses. She shivered. “I am afraid, Claire.” His head lowered further. “I am so afraid.” He kissed her neck, slow, torturous, lips and tongue and teeth rasping over the blood beneath her skin, his physical presence overpowering her. She slid her arms around him, one hand clenching in the fabric of his suit jacket, the other at the back of his head, pulling him closer. A growl caught in his throat, muffled against her skin.

She was confused, blood rushing within her, pooling and pounding in her veins. It was entirely different from a similar experience as a mortal but no less pleasurable; if anything, the sensations were sharper. She could almost feel her heart beat. He lifted his head and looked at her, his pupils blown, his face flushed.

“I’m scared, too,” she said softly.

He leaned down and kissed her, any pretense of a slow pace leaving him as his lips parted hers. The sensation was new and old and she whimpered as her tongue grazed one of his fangs. She laced her fingers in his hair, the creature within her howling and begging as he pushed one knee between her legs. Clumsily she tugged at his necktie and he broke the kiss, still pressing against her.

“I can’t. I _can’t_.” He slid his long fingers through her hair, the feeling of him moving against her body becoming too much. “ _Tu me rends f-_ ” He groaned as she kissed his throat. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Makes two of us,” she mumbled, dragging her fingernails down the back of his neck.

“No, you don’t... If I lose control entirely, I could kill you.”

“I thought you’d already passed on that opportunity?”

“ _Claire_. You are not listening to me.”

She stretched up to whisper in his ear. “Then make me.”

Something in him snapped. He snarled and hoisted her up, wrapping one of her legs around his hip. “Is that what you want, _petite fille_?” he half-growled. “I can Dominate you, even in an Elysium. One touch of my mind to yours and I can make you do anything I want.”

“That’s not ne- “ She inhaled sharply as he undid his belt, then slipped his fingers beneath her skirt, gliding against the core of her. Her eyes nearly rolled back from the sensation, her blood rushing to meet his touch.

“What was that? Not necessary?” He tilted his head, his eyes burning into her, fingers pressing more deeply. “Am I _distracting_ you?”

“Y-yes.” She clung to him, shaking, her thoughts short-circuiting.

He grinned, but she could see his own self-control fading again quickly. “That’s fine. I don’t need to use Dominate on you.” He leaned down to kiss just below her ear. “You’re so good, aren’t you, Claire?”

She nodded weakly.

“I, however, am not.“ Lightly he nipped at her skin, then withdrew his hand from beneath her skirt. “I do hope you realize that, my sweet girl.”

He kissed her again, hard, and lifted her up the rest of the way until her head was at nearly the same height as his. She barely had a moment to adjust before he was within her, his body tensed to trembling in her grasp. It was completely overwhelming, the blood within her like fire against every dead nerve, her higher mind turning to darkness as nearly unbearable pleasure took over. Blood was supposed to be a vampire’s passion, stronger than anything else, overruling mortal hungers and needs and lusts. This was... something different. This was something she wanted with him.

He was rough, ravenous, all-consuming, the heavy scent of his red-wine-and-iron blood thick in her senses. For a second she wondered what it must be like for him, but that thought flitted away with the rest. She could scarcely understand what was happening to _her_. Holding to him, she kissed his jawline, his mouth, her fingers running through his hair and clawing at his suit jacket. He held her tightly, nails digging into her flesh as he moved.

“Se...” It was at the edge of becoming pain, the pressure and sensation devouring her.

He thrust one hand into her hair, forcing her to meet his eyes, fever-bright and animalistic. “Say it.”

“S...” He moved faster, the last of her control spiraling into nothing. “Sebastian.”

A switch inside her flipped and the pressure released all at once, surging up her spine in ecstatic, trembling waves that tore a cry from her lips. It was drowning and burning alive, pushed past sanity until they became their opposites; a suffocating, electric feeling that left her utterly drained. He was a moment behind her, teeth clamping down on her shoulder through the fabric of her shirt, scarcely able to hold onto her.

Everything ebbed slowly, her mind blinking back out of scarlet fog. LaCroix lowered her, steadying himself against the wall. They stared at one another in silence for a long moment. As she took a step, her foot crunched on something, and she glanced back to see that half the window was shattered.

She swallowed, running a hand through her hair. “Uh... sorry about that.”

He sniffed. “Yes, well, I... am fairly certain I broke it.”

“Let’s be fair, _we_ broke it.”

“...One could say that. I’ll buy a new one.”

Claire studied him. It felt like there was a thick fog in her head. “And... sorry about your jacket.”

His brow creased as he noticed the tears in the back of it, then pulled it off and dropped it on the pile of broken glass.

“It was... probably worth more than I used to make in a month,” she added.

He shrugged. “I have others.”

“At least we didn’t break your desk...?”

LaCroix smiled. He looked exhausted. “Its time will come.”

She laughed then leaned up and kissed him softly. He cradled her face in his hands, surprisingly gentle.

“I, ah...” He cleared his throat. “I needn’t remind you of the... importance of discretion in this matter.”

“I’m a Tremere, Sebastian. I know how to keep secrets.”

“That’s my girl.” He sighed and kissed her again, hesitating before he let her go. “Hurry back with that sarcophagus, will you? Message me if you need anything.”

“I will.” She smiled. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yes.” Something darkened his expression then vanished so quickly she was certain she’d imagined it. “Do be careful, Claire.”

“I always am.”


	7. Chapter 7

The city’s darkness had taken new and troubling shapes. Whispers - of power, of judgment stirring in its sleep, of a great tower crumbling to dust. Already LaCroix could feel it spiraling out of control. With the Nosferatu unwilling or unable to communicate with him, he was essentially blind and deaf. Their information was surely filtered, even edited, but it was far better than this unnerving silence. What were they planning? If they had truly stolen the sarcophagus, did they intend to use its potential power themselves? An unstoppable Nosferatu clan would be a frightening prospect, indeed. Or was there some other party they’d taken it for? Who?

What was inside it had slaughtered a dozen mortals on the _Elizabeth Dane_ in its sleep. If he could only...

Nines Rodriguez was still unaccounted for, doubtless hidden by his Anarch sycophants in some fetid hole somewhere. The Kuei-jin were restless, having received proportionally little for their part in his scheme thus far. The city’s primogen were unsettled as well, and nearly cut in half with Grout dead and Gary incommunicado. That left Maximillian Strauss of the Tremere as their strongest member, a fact that made LaCroix nervous though he could not pin down precisely why. He supposed that itself was the issue. Strauss had made himself largely unknowable, his clan inarguably a pillar of the Camarilla but notorious for weaving their own intrigues and placing their collective advancement above any other goals. Hunters led by Grünfeld Bach were in Los Angeles, an element he’d not yet investigated. The Sabbat were silent, undoubtedly enraged and plotting something against him. What group wasn’t?

LaCroix was surrounded by vipers; he had to become the most poisonous among them.

Then there was the issue of Claire, of his behavior in regards to her. It had broken something in him, crossing that line; what was another violation, now, another corruption, another blasphemy? What meaning could ‘sin’ have to him at this point? He’d used every fiber of his willpower to restrain himself at least a little in the act itself, the beast within him roaring to break her. Every second with her was another nail for his enemies to crucify him with. And here he was, sending her into the jaws of rabid dogs, lying to her all the while. It surprised him just how much that had begun to sicken him. What if even she turned against him? Could he blame her, if she did?

He blinked as his phone rang, stirring him from his thoughts. Something turned in his stomach, but it wasn’t _her_ , it was Strauss. Delightful. “Regent.”

“Good evening, Prince LaCroix.” The Tremere’s deep voice was reserved as always. “My deepest apologies for troubling you this night.”

“I’m sure.” He kicked a stray fragment of wood back into the fireplace, curling his lip as it hissed. “What is it?”

“Yes, I merely wanted to see if perhaps you had heard from the Nosferatu primogen, Mr. Golden.”

“No.”

“I... see. And the neonate Ms. Farington is looking into this matter?”

“You know she is, Strauss. She is your apprentice, is she not?”

Strauss paused. “No, not yet. The procedure for a Tremere embraced outside the Pyramid is quite - “

“Yes, yes, the Pyramid, we’ve talked about this.” Damned Mages. “When I know something about what is going on with Golden, I will inform the primogen. I thought I’d made that clear?”

“You did, sir. I only... had some concern as to one of my clan operating in an area so barren of Camarilla support.”

LaCroix frowned. “She has Camarilla support.”

“Was she not sent there alone, Prince?”

Christ’s sake. “If you disapprove of how I choose to operate, you are more than welcome to send one of your apprentices to assist her. Do you doubt her abilities?”

“No. Quite the contrary.” The regent’s tone was cool. “I merely wished to impress upon you the importance of not wasting such a vital asset. I sense danger in Hollywood, perhaps a trace of a particularly... vile sorcery. It has an air of the koldunic about it.”

Tzimisce? That was a troubling thought. “She has fought Sabbat before. Besides, your kind is particularly adept against the Fiends, are you not?”

“Perhaps. Determined to oppose them, certainly.”

“Then there is nothing to worry about.” An email notification buzzed in his ear. “Good evening, Regent.” LaCroix hung up before Strauss could say anything else.

 

> _From: Claire Farington_  
>  _Subject: Hollywood_  
>  I really, really don’t like Toreadors.

LaCroix snorted.

 

> _Re: Hollywood_  
>  Is this a shocking new revelation for you, since you seem compelled to share it with me?  
>  -SL

His phone buzzed a moment later.

 

> _From: Claire Farington_  
>  _Re: Hollywood_  
>  No, but it’s been made just so incredibly clear to me these past few nights that I thought I should go down on record about it. All’s well otherwise, by the way, just a slow process investigating what’s going on.

 

 

> _Re: Hollywood_  
>  I find most people insufferable. It’s hard to narrow down which clan is most deserving of that response.  
>  Good. Keep me updated.  
>  -SL

 

 

> _From: Claire Farington_  
>  _Re: Hollywood_  
>  Definitely Ventrue.  
>  That was sarcasm. Imagine me sticking out my tongue. I’d use a little image to convey this, but I’m not sure if you’ve grasped that kind of technological advancement yet.

He smiled despite himself.

 

> _Re: Hollywood_  
>  How terribly rude. I’ll have you know that I put a great deal of effort into remaining modern, unlike most of your clanmates.  
>  I’ll imagine whatever I like.  
>  -SL

LaCroix headed back to his desk and clicked through files on his laptop, searching through old, possible contact information the Nosferatu had dug up for him some time before. One phone number supposedly belonged to the researcher Beckett. Perhaps the Gangrel might be willing to share some information.

 

> _From: Claire Farington_  
>  _Re: Hollywood_  
>  You don’t need to _imagine_ anything, Sebastian.  
>  Got to go.

Smirking, he tabbed out of the email application and dialed the number on his laptop screen. It rang several times before picking up.

“Harker’s Freelance Services, this is Harker.”

LaCroix rolled his eyes. “Really?”

A chuckle on the other end of the line. “Oh, come now. Stoker is a classic.”

“...I’ll assume this is Beckett?”

“Whatever gave me away?”

“This is - “

“Sebastian LaCroix, Prince of Los Angeles. Your caller ID masking needs updating, I’m afraid. Although I do suppose your IT department is a bit... missing in action at the moment.”

Christ above, this was going to be painful. “I am calling in regards to research I believe you’ve conducted on the Ankaran Sarcophagus.”

“Oh, indeed. So nice to see the Camarilla supporting scholarship. It’s too bad the prize was gone when your young fledgling arrived at the museum. I so wanted to discuss kindred history but she was in quite the hurry. These nights’ childer are so impatient, don’t you think?”

LaCroix’s eyes narrowed. “She didn't mention that you were there. Were you able to get a look at it?”

“Unfortunately, no. I already told - Claire, is it? - that the sarcophagus was gone when I arrived. Did you two not compare notes?”

In a way. “There were other matters of discussion that took priority.”

“Of course. You must be _so_ busy these nights, what with the City of Angels having become such a stew of superstition and unrest.”

LaCroix sighed. “Through your research, have you been able to uncover anything about the sarcophagus’ origins or nature? You are correct, the city’s kindred are uneasy, all the more so as it remains out of Camarilla custody. Any knowledge you can provide might assist in reassuring the populace.”

Beckett chuckled. “I really wish I could. The prevailing fear that the sarcophagus somehow contains an Antediluvian and other such Gehenna nonsense is my current _bête noire_ , and the last thing a Gangrel needs is another beast in the room. If I did have access to the sarcophagus, I could perhaps conduct an analysis and slay this foolishness, but until that time I have little to offer. I do believe it contains the mummified corpse of a Mesopotamian king, perfectly harmless, but I sadly lack enough data to draw any more specific conclusions.”

An incoming call noise rang in LaCroix’s ear.

“Should your young Nancy Drew recover the sarcophagus,” Beckett continued, “I would be happy to take a look at it, if only to satisfy my academic - ”

LaCroix pulled his phone away from his ear to see that the call was coming from Claire. Strange. She normally just emailed him.

“ - believe there is also a scholar in the city for the - “

“Thank you, Beckett,” LaCroix said quickly. “I will be in touch.” Before the Gangrel could reply, he hung up and switched to the second call. “And what precisely is so pressing, little fledgling?” he asked, a smile curving one corner of his mouth.

“S... Sebastian?”

Any amusement vanished at her tone. Her voice was thick, upset. “Claire? What’s going on?”

“I met... I ran into a woman. Samantha. I don’t really... but she remembers me, from work, from the archives. She remembers me.”

“Where is this woman now?” He kept his tone cool and even.

“I’m following her. She said she’d call - but she’s not - she’s not on her phone yet but she’d said that - “

“Any attention drawn to you by such a kine could easily violate the Masquerade.”

“I know, I know, I tried to convince her that she had the wrong person but it didn’t work.”

LaCroix paced in front of the bank of windows. “Have you been focusing only on Thaumaturgy, or have you been learning Dominate as well?”

“Some, but I... I’m like a hammer with it, not a scalpel. I can’t make her forget me, I’d make a mistake. I’d have to - ”

“Then approach her, make and hold eye contact with her, and do it.”

“Just _kill_ her? I think she was my friend. I didn’t... have many friends.”

He sighed. This was such youthfulness, but he supposed he could not view it with disdain. She _was_ a young kindred, after all, and he’d taken her sire from her. He had to act as sire, now, and direct her, both for her sake and that of the Masquerade. “That is the humanity within you speaking, Claire. It keeps you from being overtaken by the Beast, but it is not what keeps you alive.”

“I don’t want to - “

“What we want has nothing to do with reality.”

“It should!”

”Claire. Look her in the eye and pierce her mind with yours. She is only mortal. You are kindred. You can end her with a thought. _Will_ her heart to stop. Do you understand?”

She said nothing for a moment, then sniffled. “Yes.”

“I am going to hang up, and you are going to resolve this. You may call me back when you have.” He forced himself to end the call, and waited.

Ten minutes later, his phone rang again. “Claire?”

“It’s done.” She sounded numb, defeated.

“This is a lesson for you,” he said as gently as he was capable of. “Secrecy is the price we pay for our lives.”

“If I was better at Dominate or even just... talking people into things, I could have done that without killing her.”

“Then learn. Practice. Thaumaturgy’s raw destruction is not the solution to every problem. That is why even Tremere learn other skills. Perhaps I can teach you a bit of the Domination discipline when matters in the city are calmer.”

She was silent for so long he almost checked to see if she had hung up. “I just don’t want to be a monster, Sebastian.”

“My sweet girl.” LaCroix sighed softly. “I don’t believe you ever will be. But our kind, we must... there are things we must do in order to survive. How one feels about them determines whether or not one is monstrous.”

“How do you feel, if you kill an innocent person?”

He thought for a moment. “I was once an officer in the French military, under Napoleon. Even before becoming kindred I learned a great deal about what it takes to survive, to either emerge victorious or turn defeat into opportunity. No one who threatens that survival, knowingly or not, is truly innocent.”

“That’s... pragmatic, but I don’t know if I can see it that way.”

“Many cannot. Many more _could_ not, and are now dead.”

“That’s not particularly reassuring.”

“If you’d like empty reassurances, you’ll need to speak to one of the Toreadors you detest so much.”

She chuckled half-heartedly. “I’ll avoid that for now, thanks. I was tracking down a lead, before... this. The Nosferatu are hiding from something going on here. It’s a long story, but things are coming along, I promise.”

No time would be soon enough. “Good. I know my confidence in you is well-placed.”

“Thanks.” She paused. “Sebastian?”

“Yes, Claire?”

“Thank you for... helping me with this.”

“Of course. Just try to remain focused, hmm? And let me know if you need anything.”

“I will. Talk to you later.”

“Goodnight, _chérie_.”


	8. Chapter 8

Hollywood was supposed to be a place of wonder, of glitz and glory. Claire had seen so much decay and desecration that she could hardly call it a seedy underbelly; it seemed to be all there was. Her pursuit of the Nosferatu and the sarcophagus they’d stolen had led her into one of the so-called dream factory’s darkest nightmares: snuff films. The film in question was different than most, though. Its filmed killers weren’t human, but neither were they kindred. They were travesties of flesh and bone, bodies of the forgotten warped into screaming masses of limbs and teeth and brain matter.

Briefly she’d considered that the things on the tape weren’t real. A mixture of practical and computer-generated effects might have been able to create them. That hope was torn apart by huge clawed hands and slobbering piscine jaws in the back room of an internet cafe. She blasted through one after another with bullets and Thaumaturgy, her body shielded in blood, sickened by the beasts themselves and by the setting. It was a filthy sound stage, crafted for exploitation of the worst possible kind. People were paying and being paid to annihilate innocence.

One still-living man cowered in a corner, terrified into a gibbering mess. Claire approached him still wreathed in scarlet. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Are you with Death Mask Productions?”

The man screamed.

Claire met his eyes and focused, driving raw command into his brain. “Who made the tape?”

“We found it,” he answered in a monotone, “in a house in the hills. We only put our name on it. It’s worse than anything we ever did.”

“You violated and murdered people here. All of you are responsible.”

“N-nothing...” Her control slipped; he was shaking, spittle at the corner of his mouth. “Nothing as... b-bad as that and they weren’t - they didn’t r-really matter anyway. Junkies... r-runaways... mostly doing them a fa- “

Claire snapped his neck in one fluid movement. He didn’t deserve the pleasure of being drained.

She found a complete copy of the tape without much searching, and brought it to Isaac Abrams for review. The Anarch was as close to tolerable as Hollywood’s Toreadors got; he had been, as LaCroix had said, civil overall. The full tape contained little more than the battered excerpt had, but evidently the brief glimpse of the exterior of the mansion was enough for Abrams to recognize it.

“King’s Way,” he said, “if I’m not mistaken. My guess is that the Fiend that made this tape is using these creatures to hound the Nosferatu, which would explain their sudden absence. They’re trapped.”

She ran a hand through her hair. “That’s where I’m going, then.”

The Baron nodded. “If I don’t hear from the Nosferatu in the next few nights, I’ll tell LaCroix he’s going to need a new leading lady and march a few of my own troops up there.”

“He won’t. I’ll handle it.” Claire started for the door.

“If I... may give you one final word of warning.”

“Yes?”

He frowned. “Do _not_ trust LaCroix.”

“Noted.”

Abrams paused, then waved his hand. “When you’re all used up to him, I hope you have a moment to reconsider your poor choice in allies before your final death.”

Claire left without another word.

 

* * *

 

The mansion was somehow even more of an abattoir than she’d been expecting. Every inch was covered in a layer of pulsing, bleeding flesh, the ceiling raised by columns of bone, entrails and sinew bent into furnishings. Her blood shield dripping down her body, she descended into its basement.

A bizarre being stood there, tall and clothed in scarlet, its head a grey spiked mockery of a papal miter. Instinctive revulsion welled in her dead heart. A Tzimisce.

“What is that... smell?” he growled, then narrowed his eyes. “Cursed Tremere blood hangs heavy on the air. Young, too, squirming larvae of the wretched brood who stole their immortality.”

She leveled her Colt at his head with one hand, a blood strike ready in the other. “I don’t need to smell you to know what _you_ are, fiend.”

The Tzimisce chuckled. “Do I unnerve you, childe?”

“No. You disgust me. You and your tape.”

“Oh yes, the tape. Was it that which drove you to find me? From whence flows your longing, childe?”

“I’m looking for the Nosferatu, who you have apparently trapped.”

“Mm. They are the eyes of the Camarilla, and I will gouge them out. The sewers are clogged with my creations; I will kill or drive the Nosferatu from their pestilent nests. Without the sewer rats to guide them, the Camarilla will be blind to the Sabbat’s designs.”

“Please. The Sabbat is a pack of rabid dogs. Nothing you rabble can do will stop us.”

“The Camarilla is stunted,” the Tzimisce spat, “dead and festering in the womb, good only as pawns of the fathers. Even now they answer the call of the Ancient and seek to free him from his torpor.”

Claire shifted in place. “The contents of the sarcophagus?”

“He slumbers within, one of the fathers whose return shall hearken the Reckoning. Gehenna is at hand and the Camarilla is unwittingly speeding us all toward our doom.”

There it was again. Was there truly an Ancient in the sarcophagus? If there was, what precisely was LaCroix planning to do with it? “The only doom anybody’s speeding toward is yours.”

She blasted a blood strike at the Tzimisce, barely hitting him before he teleported away. Seemingly endless hordes of the screeching creatures burst from pipes around the room, each dead in two shots from the .44 as she kept trying to track and strike the Tzimisce with her Thaumaturgy whenever she could. Finally he sank into a pool of blood, vanishing, and as the last creature died the room sank into silence.

Claire partook of blood from the strange but useful artifact she’d received from the Nagaraja, the Odious Chalice, then pulled out her phone. It rang twice.

“Good evening, Ms. Farington. Is everything well?”

“Regent, hello, good evening.” Strauss’ calm voice settled her after the bizarre encounter with the Fiend. “I’ve just fought a Tzimisce. He just sort of disappeared, though. He’s not dead, right?”

“No, I am afraid not, young one. Koldunic sorcery is a powerful and troubling thing.” Strauss paused. “Then it is the Sabbat keeping the Nosferatu from the Camarilla.”

“Yes.” She sniffed and crawled through one of the wider pipes. “The Fiend said there are many more fleshcrafted monsters in the sewers. I’m about to find out.”

“Are you certain that such an approach is wise, young one? I can see if I can find another Tremere or two to accompany you. I understand that Prince LaCroix has given you this assignment, but I do not believe it is intended to be suicidal.”

“Thank you, sir, but I’ll be okay. I can handle this.” She slipped out of the pipe and immediately blasted the clawing flesh creature waiting for her. The phone’s signal grew fainter.

“I do not doubt your ability to overcome obstacles, young one. Only... the intent of those who place them in front of you.”

“The Prince wants the sarcophagus badly enough that if he thought I could not bring it back successfully, he’d send someone else.”

Strauss paused. “The Prince is yet young, neonate, and possesses the rashness of any youthful kindred.”

“Isn’t he around 200 years old?” Four more shots and three creatures burst into ashes.

“Yes. Certainly powerful to have attained such status at such a young age, but... that does not mean he is... infallible.”

Claire frowned. Evidently it was ‘criticize LaCroix’ night... which was every night in Los Angeles, it seemed. “I understand, sir. I’ll be careful down here, I promise.”

Strauss sighed almost too quietly for her to hear. “Please do. Take care using your disciplines on the creatures you encounter. Blood will be in short supply in the bowels of the city. Do not run too low, lest you risk the consequences.”

“Thank you, sir. Good night.”

“Good night, young one.”

Claire hung up, then typed up a quick email to LaCroix.

> _Subject: Sewers_  
>  Area is full of Tzimisce fleshcrafted _things_. They’re what’s keeping the Nosferatu trapped. I’m going to fight my way through them and get to the Nosferatu, then sort out what the idiots did with the sarcophagus. Probably going to lose signal. Wish me luck.

She rounded a corner and came face to face with a massive, humanoid beast, poisonous green filth dripping from its bladelike hands. Several dodges and blasts of her 12-gauge later and the thing fragmented into fiery dust.

Her phone dinged. 

> _From: Sebastian LaCroix_  
>  _Re: Sewers_  
>  Delightful. Take care with those abominations; do not let their disgusting appearance distract from how dangerous they are.  
>  I do hope you do not encounter too much trouble in acquiring the sarcophagus and returning. I must admit it has been too long since I have seen you.  
>  _Bonne chance, ma chérie._

She smiled, slid the phone back into her pocket, and headed deeper down into the sewers.


	9. Chapter 9

LaCroix felt like a caged lion. Nothing was advancing, his enemies circling like vultures. He knew that even others in the Camarilla had begun to question him more than usual. It had proved impossible to hide his desire for the Ankaran Sarcophagus, since he had his best agent Claire searching for it. That interest led to speculation about his motives, which could lead nowhere positive for him. The strain of it all had left him feeling _off_ , unable to manage the situation with his usual deft manipulation, reacting to others far more than taking the lead. The worse the situation got, the more depended on his gaining control of the sarcophagus. Controlling its power, one way or another, was becoming his only option for survival.

The only person he could truly rely on was Claire, and that had its own set of problems. He was left sending her into extremely dangerous situations alone because he did not dare trust anyone else. The Hollywood situation was proof of that. He’d paced for hours until he’d received her message that she’d gotten through to the Nosferatu, that she was on her way to Chinatown... although that neighborhood certainly had its own dangers as twisted as any fleshcraft.

It was embarrassing, really. He supposed he could justify it as concern over potentially losing a valuable asset, but that was hardly it. He’d trusted her with far too much, but he’d lost the willpower to stop himself. The possibility of some respite, some other person he could actually be genuine with, had become far more of a temptation that he could admit.

Alone in his haven, the darkly sleek space like a tomb, he called her. Her phone rang several times before she picked up.

“Sebastian, hello.” Traffic noise and faint music muffled her voice.

“And what are _you_ up to?” Stress made his voice come out colder than he intended. “Have you determined where it is, yet?”

A pause. “Golden says he’ll tell me once I free an agent of his. They sold it, apparently, but he won’t tell me who it was sold to yet.”

LaCroix huffed in frustration. “Free an agent from where?”

“That’s what I’m figuring out.”

He heard a door open and close, the outdoor sounds disappearing with a cool marble echo. “This is ridiculous. Make Gary tell you what he’s done with it.”

She moved the phone away from her mouth and said, “I’m here to see the Mandarin.”

“The what? Where are you?”

“The Fu Syndicate in Chinatown. And I tried, Sebastian. Gary can’t be forced to tell anybody anything.”

“He could, by me.”

“Then go talk to him yourself.” She sounded hurt. “What’s going on tonight? You’re not-” A noise like some type of machinery; a metallic thud.

LaCroix frowned. “Claire?”

A tinny, muffled voice in the background. Whirring.

“Claire. Answer me.”

Beeping. He barely caught the word ‘hunt.’

“Hunters? What? Claire, what’s going on? _Claire_?”

The line went dead.

LaCroix stared at the phone in his hand, paralyzed.

She’d be fine. She’d handled worse than hunters.

In an organized capacity. In some kind of building in Chinatown. Which already had a Nosferatu as a prisoner, and were standing in the way of his getting the sarcophagus, and he had no one to send to back her up because it was Kuei-jin territory and having sent one agent was enough of a strain to the already paper-thin alliance.

Christ.

He straightened his tie and headed out the door, dialing a human driver in the facade LaCroix Foundation’s employ. Servants entirely in the dark were sometimes the most useful. A moment later and a black luxury sedan whizzed away from downtown, toward the Fu Syndicate building at the edge of Chinatown. A call to his sheriff ensured that the beast was stationed at Venture Tower and monitoring the city’s kindred, but also ready to react at a moment’s notice if needed.

In twenty minutes the sedan made a sharp turn and parked in front of the gleaming Fu Syndicate. LaCroix peered through the car’s tinted windows from his position in the backseat. Nothing seemed any different from a perfectly normal office building. He hesitated, survival instinct that was stronger than anything else keeping him pinned in place. This had been a horrible idea. How was he supposed to -

The building’s front door flew open and the silhouette of a Nosferatu vanished into Obfuscate, followed a moment later by Claire herself, her hands dripping with blood, her clothing torn. LaCroix rolled down the window.

“Claire!” He wasn’t sure if he was more relieved or embarrassed. Up the stairs, she looked confused. “Get in. Now.” He shoved open the door and slid back across the seat away from it.

Claire approached and got in; she looked paler than normal, her gait slightly off. “What are you doing here?” she asked, eyes wide as she shut the door behind her.

“Never mind that.” The driver started off. LaCroix noted her healing wounds with a sickening possessiveness. It was unacceptable. “What happened in there? Hunters?”

“Sort of. Researchers in hunters’ employ, figuring out how to kill us. Possibly employed by the Kuei-jin, too.”

“What? That’s-”

The sedan rounded a corner behind a warehouse. LaCroix noticed several men standing on the side of the road, approaching the car. One reached inside his jacket.

“ _Down!_ ” Claire grabbed him and pulled him down out of view of the windows as gunfire cracked around them. “C’mon, drive!” she yelled, smacking the driver’s seat. “Now!”

“The car’s armored,” LaCroix hissed.

The kine driver slumped to the side, a bullet wound in his head.

“The Tong use armor piercing bullets,” Claire spat back. “Hang on.”

“What are you-”

“I said hang on!” She shoved open the door and stepped out of the car, scarlet blood emerging to coat her body in a gleaming shield. “Didn’t you morons hear what happened at Glaze?” Her own gun answered theirs, gout of blood streaking from her hands to strike them. She was terrifying and unafraid, but more men kept coming, emerging from alleyways and around corners. Too many.

LaCroix got out of the car and tilted his head. Shimmering blue cloaked him, the gleaming gold of Presence sending the Tong reeling in awe and terror straight into Claire’s strikes and bullets. He opened the driver’s door and pulled out the man’s corpse. “Come on. This is pointless.”

“No it’s not.” One man’s body lifted off the ground as he screamed, clutching at his chest before he exploded in a cloud of gore.

“Christ’s sake, Claire! Does _no one_ in this thrice-damned city listen to me?” LaCroix flicked his wrist and men’s faces went blank as they shot at their comrades then dropped dead on the pavement, one after another until the street fell silent.

Her blood shield trickled away, and she sniffed, silent. Unthinking, LaCroix reached sharply into her mind and pulled, plunging through the velvet water of her thoughts, spinning her around to face him. He forced himself to withdraw immediately and she stared at him, startled. “What was that?” he demanded, his own shields dissipating. “Last I knew, I did not employ fools.”

“Excuse me?” Her eyebrows raised. “What was I supposed to do, nothing?”

He could hear sirens in the far distance. “Get in the car, Claire.”

“You’re just angry because you’re scared.”

“Of a few kine criminals?” he scoffed. “Hardly.”

“They’re not what you’re scared of.”

“ _Get in the car_.”

Shaking her head, she walked around to the other side of the sedan and got in. LaCroix got into the driver’s seat and sped off, then slowed down to blend into traffic. Hopefully Los Angeles’ distracted drivers would not notice the bullet holes in the car.

“That was unnecessary and foolish,” he repeated. “What were you-”

“I’m calling Gary,” she said, ignoring him. “Don’t say anything while I’m talking to him. That would only make things worse. Please. Sir.”

LaCroix narrowed his eyes and said nothing, seething, more angry at himself than at her.

Claire dialed a number on her phone and it rang, evidently on speaker.

“ _Do you have Prince Albert in the can?_ ” came an unfamiliar voice, turning into a rasping chuckle. Damned obnoxious Gary. “Well you’d better let ‘im go, boss.” Another purring laugh. “You done real well, bringing our boy back home. I got your info, hero.”

“So where is it, Gary?” Claire asked.

“The same information I gave your Prince, I also traded to the Giovanni for a bit of... juicy gossip.”

The Giovanni? Corpse-loving, incestuous, worthless -

“You both had an equal opportunity to take it,” Golden continued, “they just had a bit more... initiative.”

LaCroix shifted indignantly in his seat and Claire waved her hand at him before he could even think about speaking. “Great,” Claire said. “The vampire mafia.”

“Mm. Spaghetti and corpses, boss.”

“Where do I find these lovely people?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you,” Gary purred, “and if you’re foolish enough to go there, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. They have a mansion in the city; they’re having a reunion. Anyone who isn’t a Giovanni shouldn’t get within fifty yards.”

“That’s okay. I like doing things I shouldn’t.”

LaCroix nearly ran a red light.

Golden laughed. “You get ‘em, boss. You give ‘em one for Gary.”

“Yeah. And get your people back on duty for the Camarilla. We need your eyes and ears.”

“Of course. Heh. If you should survive, and ever need any information yourself, come see me. I’m always here. And everywhere.”

The call disconnected.

The car was silent for a moment.

“So,” Claire said, “the Giovanni.”

“I heard him,” LaCroix grumbled. “Insolent, filthy sewer rat.”

“It adds to his charm.”

He glared at her. “Are you _trying_ to anger me tonight? Is this amusing for you?”

“I’ve been through a lot the past few nights.”

“Yes, you have, and I thank you.” His tone was clipped.

Claire paused. He could feel her looking at him. “And _amused_ isn’t the right word, but I’m intrigued by the fact that you showed up at the Syndicate.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

She sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I was... frustrated. I barely made it out of the sewers, and then with all this nonsense in Chinatown...”

“Yes, I know. I send you alone to do too much. I’m a tyrant. _Et cetera_.” He waved his hand. “Join the chorus of malcontents, please. I would love to hear it.”

“No, I don’t think that at all. I was just explaining-”

“That you were nearly killed. I am aware.”

“Sebastian.”

His name on her lips cut into him. It always did. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly he nearly cracked it. “What? What would you have me do?”

She fell silent. In a moment he pulled up in front of the Skyline Apartments, staring out the windshield.

“Sebastian, I-”

“You _what_ , Claire?”

“I don’t... live here anymore. I’ve been allowed to join the Chantry as an apprentice, now, so I’m staying -”

He screeched back into traffic, driving too fast down the road without speaking. He drove straight past the Chantry building and felt her turn in her seat, but she said nothing. In a few minutes he pulled into the parking garage of his own building.

“Where is th-”

“Just _come on_.” LaCroix hated the pleading tone he heard in his own voice; one she apparently heard, too, because she followed him without protest. He pounded the elevator call button, then stepped inside with her behind him. Folding his arms, he stared at the doors until they opened at the top floor, his penthouse apartment.

He went inside without looking back, stopping a few paces in, dull gold city light dripping across the floor from the night outside. Standing there, his shoulders trembling, he tried to force himself to calm down. He was being petulant, ridiculous. He could not risk alienating the one real ally he had left, and such a powerful one - a cold Ventrue thought he cast aside with disgust.

But what could he replace that reasoning with? The truth? The truth was that he needed her, and that as soon as she realized she didn’t need him, she would abandon him. What smart kindred wouldn’t? The truth was that the sarcophagus’ power might not be enough to keep the City of Angels and his avenging angel.

The truth was that he was out of control.

LaCroix turned toward her to see that she was just standing there, a disheveled mess, hands folded in front of her. “Why did you come after me tonight?” Her voice was small and quiet.

He strode toward her, and it stung to see her eyes widen a little.

“I’m sorry that I-”

He clasped her face in his hands and kissed her, sighing as her body relaxed against his and her arms wrapped around him. He slid one arm behind her and leaned her backward, bowing her as he had when he’d first met her what seemed like a lifetime ago, his fingers sliding into her hair. Forcefulness came naturally to him and it was very difficult not to be too rough as it was, never mind in his agitated state. His fingertips dug hard enough to bruise even a kindred’s body, drawing a whimper from her but only increasing the ferocity of her kiss.

This had become his favorite sin. The raw power of his blood surging through him, his senses aflame, every dead nerve strung taut to snapping. The taste of her, the blood just beneath her silken pale skin drowning him in the scent of rainwater on stone, of the comforting mustiness of old books, of grassy fields after a storm and every little moment of happiness he’d felt lifetimes ago, before he’d gone to war, before night had fallen on him forever. He wanted to be the only one who could move her. His scarlet goddess, his dark-haired angel clothed in blood. _His_.

Her clothes were tattered and it took the barest rip to destroy them, her underthings simple and black and cast aside in moments. She was slim and not traditionally beautiful, the austerity of her features granted true beauty by the power in her blood and the contrasting fire and gentleness of her personality. Who she was made her stunning to him. If kindred had souls, hers was surely pure flame.

He doubted that he had one left.

“I’ve missed you,” she murmured as she unbuttoned his shirt, his necktie and jacket already discarded. He could nearly feel his heart beat from the rush of blood within him, her sweet face flushed, her eyes so clear, so genuine.

“ _Tu me manques toujours_ ,” he let himself whisper against her skin as he carried her and laid her down.

She laughed, light and soft as he kissed her neck and collarbone. “You do know I can’t actually speak French, don’t you?” She ran her hands through his hair. “I only know a little. _Chéri_.” Her voice turned breathy, distracted as he moved down her body. Her reactions were intoxicating. “ _Merci beaucoup. Où est la bibliothèque?_ That’s... about it.”

“Mm. Finding the library is very important for someone like you.” He chuckled despite himself, delighting at her shiver as he kissed her inner thigh. “One night I will teach you.”

“Start with... what... you said before.”

He lifted his head to meet her eyes. “I said, I always miss you.”

“Oh.”

“ _Oui_.” As he touched her, he could feel her blood move beneath her skin, the force of his own nearly unbearable. Pressure and movement and it did not take long for her, her body blooming before him, shudders coursing through her as her hands clenched in his sheets. He could barely focus on anything, teetering on the blade’s edge between too much control and not enough.

“Teach me... something else to say, _mon chéri_.” She slid her arms around him as he moved up her body.

“Impatient girl.” He kissed her deeply, everything in his mind shutting down for a moment as his body melded with hers. Within her was sweetest flame, sensation scalding every inch of him in exquisitely unbearable torment. It took as much willpower as he could muster to find some kind of pace, the beast under his skin begging for all she had to give.

“How... how do I say...” Her nails dug sharply into his back. “‘I want you?’”

“You are saying it right now,” he growled, teeth grazing her skin.

“Not.. fair.”

He smirked and kissed her again, shivering as she caught his bottom lip between her teeth. “ _Je te veux._ ”

“ _Je te veux_ ,” she repeated as best she could under the circumstances, her creased brow endearing.

“ _Oui, petite fille_.” His voice rasped as he struggled, moving more quickly. “ _Je... te veux,_ Claire. _Tu fais... battre mon coeur_.”

Her back arched beneath him, nails slicing his skin as she shuddered with lost control once more, and he could not endure a moment longer. The blood within him surged in a torrent of pressure and sensation finally giving way, the profane pleasure of it leaving him exhausted and trembling.

He held her as it faded, kissing her as gently as he could manage. He slid beside her and drew her to his chest, sighing.

“What was that last thing you said?” she murmured, curling in closer to him.

“Mm.”

“Oh, tell me, Sebastian.” She traced one finger along his arm, laughing softly. “I’ll look it up if you don’t.”

“So insolent,” he grumbled without malice, smiling. “I said, you make my heart beat.”

“Oh?” She rolled over, pressing her ear to his chest, her reddened cheeks faded back to a soft blush. “Hmm. Maybe it’s shy.”

He snorted and tousled her hair. “I think you enjoy testing my patience, little girl.”

“On occasion.” She snuggled back against him, sighing. “You make my heart beat, too.”

He held her closer, his smile fading, fleeting peace slowly shadowed by the darkness of his fears.


	10. Chapter 10

Claire smoothed her simple black dress and twisted her hair into a bun. She was inviting herself to a party, after all. Her pale skin was unmarred from the previous night, everything neat and innocent. vampiric healing cleansing all sins. She wished it didn’t, although it was certainly safer that it did. Some marks could be explained by combat and others could not. Her room in the Chantry was warmly sumptuous, a candle flickering in an amber glass, rain pattering on the roof above. It felt like a home.

If only he could join her there.

She finished her makeup, slicking on lipstick in purest Tremere scarlet before she headed down the staircase toward the front door.

“Neonate.”

Maximillian Strauss’ calm voice stopped her in her tracks. “Good evening, sir.” She smiled. “I’m sorry, I haven’t seen you properly since fighting the Tzimisce.”

“No need for apologies, young one.” His red jacket was impeccable as always, his eyes shadowed behind round lenses. “Your messages were perfectly sufficient. I am pleased that you endured your encounter with the Fiend’s abominations with such determination.”

“Thank you, sir. It was... disturbing, but I hope that I’ve damaged the Sabbat - and helped the Camarilla, too.”

He nodded, his expression particularly inscrutable. “I understand that you are going to acquire the sarcophagus from the stronghold of the Giovanni.”

She didn’t question how he knew; she assumed Strauss knew nearly everything. “Yes. Without their permission, I assume.”

“Indeed, that seems the most likely course of events. I must... caution you.” Strauss pushed up his glasses with one gloved finger. “I wish to speak with you in more depth later, when you are ready. For now, I ask only that you hear me and consider my words carefully. I do not seek a discussion now, and I am certain that you do not either.”

Her brow creased. “Of course, Regent.”

“The sarcophagus must be secure in Camarilla hands,” he said, lowering his voice, “lest it be used against us. Lest it be used. If even a portion of the portents and rumors surrounding it are correct, the sarcophagus poses a great danger regardless of who possesses it.”

Claire hesitated. “The Tzimisce said that it contains an Ancient or elder of some kind - or at least that’s what the Sabbat think.”

“Some concur. Some do not.” Strauss gazed at her in silence for a moment. “It raises the question of _how_ precisely whomever holds the sarcophagus intends to use its contents.”

His words held the ghost of the ultimate kindred taboo, one that even a fledgling like her had heard about. The Tremere clan would not exist in its current form without the act, after all. Diablerie. The devil’s draught. Could LaCroix truly... “Would we have reached such heights without Saulot?” she asked, addressing it indirectly.

“The question is not whether an Ancient or Antediluvian’s blood contains the power of ascension, young one. The question is whether anyone can or should grasp such power, and what the intentions behind such an act might be.”

She started to speak, but Strauss held up his hand.

“Consider it, Claire. We will speak later, after you have.” He turned and disappeared deeper into the Chantry before she could respond.

 

* * *

 

The Giovanni mansion was so far out of Claire’s element that she could scarcely see it from within the grey-white marble halls, the wine and gossip, the underlying stench of decay whispering just at the edge of her senses. LaCroix would have played them easily, if he wanted to, but she wasn’t LaCroix. She slipped away from the pleasantries as quickly as she could, through a hidden door and into a basement that looked more like a morgue than anything else, catacombs stretching in endless worm tunnels below. Sighing, she slipped down into the decrepit passageway.

It only took a moment before the moans started, thick with bile and rot. Claire slipped through them as deftly as she could, striking only when they got too close. There was no point in wasting her energy on such husks. The prize was below.

At last the corridor opened on a balcony of a massive central room, weak shafts of light filtering through cracks in the ceiling, the Ankaran Sarcophagus in an alcove below.

Not alone.

“Kindred!” shouted one of two men, Kuei-jin by the scent of them, like rotting flowers. They stood at the center of the great space, between her and the sarcophagus. “Your presence here violates the agreement between our leaders! Leave now or face the consequences of your actions!”

“Is this a joke?” She tossed her head and her blood shield enveloped her. “You’re far from Chinatown, Kuei-jin. The confusion’s got you spouting nonsense. I’m here for the sarcophagus.”

Each man drew a weapon - a sword and bladed claws. “There is an alliance between your leader, LaCroix, and mistress Ming Xiao,” the first Kuei-jin insisted. “You violate that agreement.”

“Nope,” Claire scoffed. “You’re going to need to lie better than that to save yourselves.”

“We’ll give you one more chance to leave this place and keep your life. You will go?”

“Sure. In a minute.”

She leaped down, landing lightly on her feet with a blast of blood from each hand, barely striking each of them before they vanished in sickly blue light. The twin Kuei-jin reappeared and disappeared in turns, slashing at her with frightening speed. She kept up with bullets and blood, tearing at them bit by bit, shredding their insides with both Thaumaturgy and Dominate. It took time and left her worn down to a thirsting razor’s edge, but she finally killed both of them, the space echoing with a final splashing gout of blood before it fell silent.

Trembling, she drank from her Chalice, then rested her hands on the sarcophagus’ lid. Could it possibly be true? An Ancient, powerful beyond reckoning, slumbering within? If it was, if it had killed the Dane crew in its sleep, why was there no reaction now or during her fight? Did that question even make sense, given the unknowable twisted threads of Jyhad and the utterly inhuman minds of such old kindred?

What was LaCroix planning?

Why had the Kuei-jin been there, and why had they claimed that their kind and LaCroix had an alliance?

That couldn’t be. It made no sense. At the very least, he definitely wanted the sarcophagus for himself. Having Kuei-jin stationed there who were not to be disturbed went entirely against that goal. Maybe that part _was_ a lie, but the entirety wasn’t.

LaCroix was a Ventrue. She hadn’t forgotten. That strength and drive were part of what drew her to him. If anything was truly going on, there had to be some advantage in it, some explanation. But why wouldn’t he tell her, if there was anything to tell? She was honest with him. She expected political maneuvering, secrets. But this? What was he doing? Did he even know?

_Tu fais battre mon coeur._

Doubt caught in her throat; she swallowed it and started dragging the sarcophagus.

 

* * *

 

Her heels clacked on Venture Tower’s rich parquet floor. A few vampires shuffled out after having brought the sarcophagus into LaCroix’s office; she was surprised to see Beckett standing on the other side of it, examining its markings. LaCroix himself stood in front of his desk. The circles under his ice-pale eyes were darker than ever.

“There you are.” He smiled warmly. “I knew you were the only one who could accomplish this. The Ankaran Sarcophagus, ours at last.”

“Yes, it is.”

He didn’t seem to notice her slightly cool tone. “I’ve granted Beckett’s request to study and document all the markings on the sarcophagus. You’ve met him already. Come.” He took her arm and led her over to the sarcophagus. “Let’s take a look inside, and see what the commotion around the city has really been all about.”

Beckett glanced up from the sarcophagus, beast’s eyes glinting. “If it isn’t the brave knight herself, home from the crusades.”

Claire narrowed her eyes. “Yes, I’m sure you know what I’ve been up to, what with you following me now and again.”

“Oh, our paths crossing is hardly of any significance, what with us both tracking this season’s must-have. Perhaps _you_ were following _me_?”

LaCroix rolled his eyes. “What have you determined so far, Beckett?”

One corner of the Gangrel’s mouth curled in a smile. “Unfortunately for the heralds of doom, it appears we _won’t_ be opening Pandora’s box. The markings, as far as I can tell, are of Assyrian origin - an extraordinary piece, but nothing earth-shattering.”

“I see.” LaCroix grasped the edges of the lid. “Then there is no good reason why we shouldn’t open it.”

Dread wound quickly up her spine.

He pushed the lid, carefully at first, then harder. “Hmm. Won’t budge. Beckett, do you see any mechanism for the lid?”

“I haven’t as of yet had a chance to pore over it with my fine-toothed comb,” he drawled. “I think I have one in my bag.”

LaCroix shoved the lid again with his full strength, having no effect. “Why won’t... why won’t it open? Claire.” He turned to her, frowning. “I thought you said it looked as if it had been opened on the _Dane_?”

“It did.”

He stared at her for a moment, a shadow flitting across his face before he glanced back at Beckett. “You two figure out how this thing opens. We need to know what’s inside. Come get me when you know something; I’ve other matters to attend to.”

LaCroix stalked back over to his desk, and Beckett shrugged. “The young ones get so temperamental.”

Claire traced the edge of a carving. “So you want to open this thing too, huh?”

“If only to show the city that Gehenna, contrary to popular belief, has not begun.”

“Then what do you think is inside?”

Beckett grinned. “Put your ear to it, I’ll shake it, and you tell me what _you_ think is inside.”

“Somehow I don’t think that'll be helpful.”

“Aw, you’re no fun at all. But correct.” He smirked. “Fortunately for us, I know of someone who has distinguished himself in this field. His name’s Dr. Anders Johansen, a professor of archaeology from Norway. He was the one responsible for finding the sarcophagus, and, as far as I know, the only authority on its origin and design.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t he in Los Angeles for the exhibit on the sarcophagus that was supposed to happen, or something like that?”

“He was, but when I stopped by his hotel room earlier this evening, all I found was spilt coffee on a morning paper. Appears he’s been abducted.”

“Oh, good.” She rubbed her temple. “Any idea by who, or where he might be?”

“I detected the scent of myrrh incense, which is usually burned in monasteries. Also, I found beach sand in part of a muddy footprint. Putting two and two together, I located a monastery near a beach in Malibu, where I believe hunters are holding Johansen captive.”

Claire stared at him, incredulous.

Beckett chuckled. “Oh, all right. I actually found two hunters on the roof of the building opposite the hotel who were positively delighted to tell me everything they knew, provided I stop dangling them off head first over the side.”

“Seems reasonable.”

“Indeed. The hunters abducted Dr. Johansen for his own protection... or, at least, that’s how they’ve justified it. He’s being held by the Society of Leopold and being used, quite ingeniously, as bait for LaCroix’s minions.”

“AKA, me.”

“So it would seem. Surely the  _Prince_ can afford other employees. He could pawn a chandelier or two, if needed.”

“Quality, not quantity, Beckett.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these nights?” His beast’s eyes glimmered. “In any case, you’ll have to find your way into the tunnels below the monastery, where they’re holding Johansen.”

“Fantastic.” She sighed.

Beckett grinned. “Where’s the fun without complications?”

“I could take a night off, for starters.”

“Oh, I doubt that. I’m sure Sebastian here would think of some mundane task to keep you occupied.”

“Always.”

“I can hear you two, you know,” LaCroix grumbled from across the room. “I'm still here. This is _my_ office. In case you’ve forgotten.”

“ _You’re_ no fun, either,” Beckett chuckled.

Claire shook her head. “If you don’t mind, Beckett, can you excuse us for a while? I have to discuss some business with the Prince.”

The Gangrel shrugged. “Certainly. I’ve got to stop by the library, anyway. My knowledge of Assyrian imagery isn’t as sharp as it could be.”

“Thanks.”

Beckett left, and Claire hesitated for a moment before approaching LaCroix’s desk.

LaCroix glanced up from the laptop and mound of papers in front of him. “Is everything all right?”

“I...” She lowered her eyes, uncomfortable. “Not really. There were two Kuei-jin in the same room as the sarcophagus. I don’t know if they were there to get it, or what.”

“Kuei-jin? Interesting.” He leaned back in his chair. “I assume they did not pose much trouble for you.”

“A little, but nothing I couldn’t handle. It’s just that...”

“Yes? What is it, _chérie_?”

She sighed. “They claimed that there is or was some kind of... pact in place between us and the Kuei-jin. Well, between you and the Kuei-jin.”

LaCroix frowned. “Clearly not. Did they think you would spare them, if they said such a thing?”

“I don’t know. It was just.. weird. It’s not something a Kuei-jin would just come up with out of thin air.”

“A delusional Kuei-jin, perhaps.” He shook his head. “No kindred would trust them, nor would they trust us.”

“Trust is not a prerequisite for a political arrangement, is it? Only for a personal one.”

LaCroix gazed at her in silence for a moment. “Do you trust me, Claire?”

“You know I do, but that trust doesn’t have to be blind.” She sighed. “It’s not even that I... look, everything has a reason. Manipulating enemies, or whatever you need to do. I’m not even questioning that. I just... I want you to trust me with the truth. I need to know what I’m facing out here if I’m going to do what you need me to do.”

He seemed like he was trying to decide whether or not to be angry. “Come here, Claire.”

She walked around to his side of the desk, and he took her hands in his, a muscle working in his jaw.

“You understand, don’t you?” he asked. “All of this... the Camarilla. Power. It’s all a game fought to the death. Even enemies can be pawns.”

“Just tell me, Sebastian.” She squeezed his hands. “It’s okay.”

He sighed and closed his eyes. “It was a... difficult decision to make,” he said after a moment. “But I only did it for the greater good. I could use them against other enemies, manipulate them, only to bring all kindred under Camarilla govern.”

Claire’s brow creased. “The Anarchs?” She thought back to Nines Rodriguez, still missing, and how the Anarchs had not yet fallen in line. “Rodriguez killed Grout. What do the Kuei-jin have to do with that? I saw him.”

“You did.” LaCroix's expression turned stricken. “You... saw what you needed to.” He pressed her hands to his lips, his own hands trembling. “I’m sorry, Claire.”

Her mind whirred until a piece fell into place. The Kuei-jin had strange powers, one of which, she had heard, was the power to change their appearance into anything they chose. Or anyone. “So it... wasn’t Nines. That was... an illusion?”

He nodded without speaking.

It felt like the floor was falling out from under her. “Why didn’t you just tell me what you were doing? You...”

“Please, forgive me.” His voice was thick. “Your innocent eyes were the only option, the only way you would be believed. I couldn’t tell you first.”

“So that you could order Rodriguez’s death based on my unwitting lie.”

“Survival is cruel to us all. You know that. We do things we have no desire to, because we are left with no choice.”

“Yeah, it's pretty _cruel_ to use somebody like that.”

“Please, I did not intend-”

“You could’ve trusted me, Sebastian."

"I only-"

"I would’ve helped you willingly. Instead you decided to treat me like just another pawn."

"I never meant to-"

"Is that what I am to you? A pawn?”

“ _No_. Please, Claire. _Please_.” He slid from the chair to his knees, holding her hands tightly. It was startling to see such desperation from him. “I should have trusted you. I was... afraid. All my life, I...” His voice hitched.

She was hurt, even as care and pity for him welled up in her. “Is there anything else you’ve lied to me about?”

“No!” He stared up at her, broken, terrified. “This whole damnable business with them, that was the only thing. I swear to you, Claire. Please. I’ve been... more myself, more honest with you than I thought I was capable of. You... I’d always thought that my... that I couldn’t feel...” His head bent over her hands. “I don’t deserve anything from you. You are an angel. I... I’m begging you. I’m _begging_ you, Claire. I’m...” He trailed off, his body shaking.

Claire gazed down at him, her mind and emotions a maelstrom. Hadn’t everyone been speaking against him from the beginning, saying that he was using her? His machinations were going to get him killed, if not by their enemies than by the Camarilla itself. Strauss’ furtive implications had made his concerns all but clear. If Strauss knew about LaCroix’s plot with the Kuei-jin, his fate was sealed, regardless of what pro-Camarilla intentions he may have had. He was a threat, and threats were put down. The possibility of power from the sarcophagus only made that threat worse and more pressing to his enemies.

None of it mattered. The truth was, she’d already made her choice many nights before.

“Look at me,” she murmured.

LaCroix obeyed, trembling, his pale eyes wide with fear and sadness.

She stroked his cheek. “You’re a disaster. You’re in your own way; you’re going to hang yourself with your own plots. And manipulating me is not acceptable. You don’t treat people you care about like that.”

“I’m... s-sorry.” His voice was ragged.

“You’re a bastard.” She sighed. “You’re lucky I’m so smitten with you.”

A dry sob caught in his throat and he reached up for her, wrapping his arms around her. She held him, stroking his hair, his head on her chest.

“Be honest with me from now on. This can never happen again.”

“I will,” he said quickly, muffled in her dress. “Only with you. I swear to you, Claire.”

“And I only with you. We’ll deal with whatever we have to together.”

He held her tighter. “How are you... always so confident?”

“Because I don’t care what anybody else thinks. And because my judgment is questionable, let’s be fair.”

He sniffled and managed a chuckle. “Clearly I’m the wrong person to ask about that.” Shakily he stood and traced a finger along her cheek.

“I’m not going anywhere, Sebastian,” she said. “Do you understand me?” She kissed him, holding him as tightly as she could.

“Yes, my angel,” he murmured against her lips. “My sweet girl. Nor I.”

Damn them all. She’d blast through every one, every hunter, every Sabbat, every sorry backstabbing rat and open enemy that stood in their way. Let them come. Let them dare.

She was a Tremere, after all. She was made to spill blood.


	11. Chapter 11

Nothing got any easier, of course. It never did. The primogen were hounding him, asking in the most roundabout ways possible what he intended to do with the Ankaran Sarcophagus. Not that he _could_ do much of anything, yet, the thing sitting there taunting him until they figured out how to open it. Merely having it was certainly the first step, though, and a symbol of power. Those were always valuable.

LaCroix felt better in some ways after having essentially broken down, being forced to come clean with Claire about his Kuei-jin plot, and... other matters. It was uncomfortable and dangerous, allowing himself such emotion and open weakness, but he believed her. She’d been nothing but genuine with him all along. To have what amounted to a partner made him feel stronger, more even-keeled. Truly working together, perhaps she was right. Perhaps they could triumph, in the end.

Perhaps.

He was in his office, working through a variety of the city’s issues, Beckett having set up camp next to the sarcophagus and interjecting witticisms when he apparently felt it necessary.

LaCroix’s phone rang, and he smiled to himself. Claire. “I trust you’ve arrived without difficulty?”

“Always, _chéri_.” A loud crack from her handgun echoed through the phone. “Just doing pest control, you know. The usual.”

“I’m sure.”

“Is that Claire?” asked Beckett from across the room. “Ask her how the beach is. I hear Malibu is lovely this time of night.”

“What was that?” she asked.

LaCroix rolled his eyes. “Beckett’s here. He wants to know how the beach is, since that's evidently vital archaeological information now.”

Beckett huffed in pretend offense. "It could be."

“Sandy,” Claire replied. More gunshots. “Am I on speaker?”

“No. Would you like to be?”

“Sure. Beckett may have something to contribute once I find Johansen.” She chuckled. “I’ll behave myself in public hearing, I promise.”

“That remains to be seen.” LaCroix flicked the phone into speaker mode and was met by gunshots and a sticky, wet sound echoing in the gilded office. “Precisely _how_ are you doing all this while on the telephone?”

“There’s this really cool new thing called bluetooth.” More gunshots and shouting kine in the background.

Beckett pulled up a chair across the desk from LaCroix and shook his head. “Modern life is so quaint.”

“I _have_ heard of it, Claire,” LaCroix added.

“Sure.” The background noise grew quieter, replaced by rustling fabric. “I’ve found a book. A journal. Initials ‘G.B.’”

“Grünfeld Bach, undoubtedly,” said LaCroix. “The hound reappears.”

“Must be. Hang on, let me skim it and see if there’s anything useful.” A pause. “Well, he says he can feel evil stirring and specifies that it’s evil other than you. Then talks about some kind of nightmare where he sees your, quote, ‘hideous visage burned to ash in a great inferno.’”

“How enlightening.”

“Aw, Sebastian.” Beckett smirked. “I think you have a fan.”

“Nothing else that useful, really,” Claire continued. “He confirms that Johansen knows how to open the sarcophagus, at least. Let me see if there’s anything else around.” She went quiet again. “Here we go. A thick book entitled... _Vampyr Apocrypha_ , apparently. A bookmark at the entry ‘Unidentified Sarcophagus, discovered by Julius of Gaul, 1068 AD, near Ankara, Ottoman Empire.’ Sort of a brief article. Not sure how helpful it’ll be, but I’ll bring it back with me, okay, Beckett?”

“I look forward to perusing it,” Beckett said. “It sounds thrilling.”

“Okay, I’m off again. Tell me about Bach, if you don’t mind, Sebastian.”

LaCroix shrugged. “It’s a bit of dull history, really. He is one of a line of hunters; the first of them that I encountered was his grandfather. He pursued me into Africa, where I killed him. His son, Bach’s father, tracked me to London, where he met his death.”

Kine shouting turning to screams, studded with pattering gunshots and Claire’s own louder blasts. “And now Bach has found you here in America.”

“Hunters never learn.”

“Apparently not.” A wooden creaking. “Okay, I’ve found the entrance to the tunnels you mentioned, Beckett.”

“Excellent,” Beckett replied. “Johansen is being held somewhere down there. And presumably Sebastian’s friend Bach awaits you, as well.”

A clack as Claire reloaded her gun. “Good.”

“Take care fighting Bach himself, though,” LaCroix added. “Hunters of his fanaticism have abilities greater than normal kine. His... ‘faith’ gives him strength, and a sort of weaponized light to harm kindred.”

“Neat. I’ll be able to see him clearly when my Thaumaturgy rips him open and sprays him all over the walls.”

Beckett raised an eyebrow, and LaCroix shrugged. “That’s my girl.”

Claire laughed. A thud on stone, and a brief pause before shouts rose and were strangled into shrieks and wet splatters. Kine breathing suddenly near the phone, followed by a thud as she presumably finished draining the man.

Beckett frowned suddenly, and turned toward the door. “Do you smell that?”

LaCroix sniffed the air, listening. “No...? What?”

“There’s... Hmm.” The Gangrel’s eyes narrowed behind his dark lenses.

“What’s going on there?” Claire asked between gunshots.

“Nothing, I don’t think.” Beckett straightened in his chair. “Apologies. False alarm.”

LaCroix pressed a button on the intercom for Venture Tower’s front desk. “It’s Mr. LaCroix. Is everything all right down there?”

“Uh... yes, sir,” answered a kine guard, sounding confused. “Is... everything all right up there?”

“Of course. Just checking.” He shrugged. “No need for concern, Claire. Just keep going.”

“Okay.” A sound of stone scraping on stone. “Huh. It’s a huge cave, turned into a sort of... training area, I think. There’s-” A whistling noise straight past the receiver. “Sniper rifle. Cute.”

Faintly LaCroix could hear a man yelling in the background of the call, a distinct German accent in his words. Bach.

“The ‘archfiend’ has better things to do than bother with you, filth,” Claire shouted back.

Beckett stood suddenly. “No, something is definitely wrong here.”

“I will show you power,” Claire growled. Gunshots. A high-pitched thrumming noise.

LaCroix held up his hands. “Beckett, what are you even-”

Venture Tower shook in a startling blast, an explosion somewhere at the base of it rattling the windows. Far below, LaCroix could hear howling.

“Sabbat.” Beckett drew a blade from under his jacket and was out the door before LaCroix could say a word. The building’s fire alarms started going off, a deafening, throbbing siren.

“Sebastian?” Claire cried, barely audible over the din.

“I’m fine, Claire,” he said quickly, getting up and straightening his tie. “It’s just some Sabbat cretins. It will be fine. Do _not_ lose focus on Bach. I’ll call you right back, darling, all right?”

Gunshots through the phone and in the tower below him. “Okay. Be safe. I’ll be back as fast as I can.” The call disconnected.

LaCroix sniffed and flicked the cool blue of Potence around himself as he headed down the stairs. His sheriff would already be in the lobby, he knew, but it was possible that a few Sabbat had gotten past him - after the sarcophagus, no doubt. There was only one route up to his office. He waited in silence in the gilded upper lobby, red emergency lights flashing in the now-darkened space, sprinklers switching on as the fire alarm kept wailing.

It didn’t take long for the door to swing open and three Sabbat vampires to step through, guns in hand, one of them a Gangrel in war form.

“Good evening,” LaCroix said.

They started firing, the Gangrel charging straight for him with the garbled cry of the frenzied. His disciplines turned the gunshots to gnat’s bites. Smiling, LaCroix flicked his wrist and the Gangrel stopped in his tracks and began seizing, specks of bloody foam at the corners of his beast’s mouth. LaCroix sent pure blind command plunging into the Sabbat’s brain, sharp and precise as a needle; the beast turned on his companions, tearing at them with fangs and claws as they screamed in horror. LaCroix watched as two more Sabbat entered, one with a knife in his hand that shook for a moment before his will bent and he slit his own throat with it. The second was killed by the possessed Gangrel almost instantly.

His companions dead, the Gangrel turned back to LaCroix, shaking as he tried to break the vise of Dominate controlling him. LaCroix gazed back, impassive. The Gangrel’s eyes rolled back in his head and he clutched at his throat, slicing at his own furred skin with his long claws until he fell in a ragged mess at LaCroix’s feet.

The fire alarm turned off, the sprinklers’ rain pattering on the marble floor in the sudden quiet. Far below he could hear his sheriff’s great sword slamming against marble, a din ending with a final howl cut short. He waited for any more stragglers to find their way in, but none came, the sprinklers finally shutting off and leaving only silence.

He dialed Claire; she answered after a single ring.

“Sebastian! Are you all right?”

He sighed with relief. “Yes. Are you?”

“Yeah. Bach’s dead. I’ve just finished talking to Johansen, getting ready to leave in a second. What happened there? The Sabbat attacked the tower?”

“They made a shoddy attempt.” His lip curled. “Animals. I’ve got to deal with this mess now, though. Are you certain you’re all right?”

“I’m perfectly fine, _chéri_.”

“ _Someone_ had fun in here,” came Beckett’s voice. LaCroix turned to see him nudging a pile of ash on the floor with his toe. “I think you may need to call housekeeping.”

“Is that Beckett?” Claire asked. “Can you put me back on speaker?”

“Of course.” LaCroix obliged as they headed back to his office.

“Okay,” Claire continued, “so the short version is, there’s a complex stone key that’s the only way to open the sarcophagus. That was what was in the missing box from the _Dane_ : a key.”

“An invention as ancient as greed,” Beckett remarked.

LaCroix frowned. “I assume the hunters don’t have it?”

“Nope. I’ll track it down, it’s fine. Beckett, Johansen confirms that the sarcophagus is Assyrian. The prevailing theory is that it contains a king by the name of Messerach.”

Beckett nodded. “Glad to see I’m not losing my touch. Messerach, though... I’ll have to look up that name, see what I can find.”

“He also says that the most prominent figure carved into the sarcophagus is most likely an evil goddess called Lamastu.”

“Really? Interesting. She was a Lilith figure. Strange that _she_ would be engraved on a king’s tomb. I’ll look into that as well.”

“Excellent,” said LaCroix. “Then we are closer to opening the thing and resolving this nonsense once and for all.” Closer to understanding its power, and wielding it.

“Definitely.” A door creaked open. “I - are you _serious_?”

LaCroix frowned. “What?”

A scraping sound. “Your time of judgment is here.” Bach’s voice. A soft click.

“Claire? I though you-”

Claire sighed. “For Christ’s sake.” A wet noise and crack of bone near the phone. “Okay, Bach’s dead _now_.”

Beeping in the background, insistent.

Beckett raised an eyebrow. “Is... that a bomb? What is it with bombs tonight? Was there a sale at Explosives-R-Us? I feel I ought to have been notified.”

Rumbling, echoing in a cavernous space. “Got to go,” Claire said hurriedly.

“Be careful, please,” LaCroix insisted.

“I will. _À bientôt!_ ” She hung up.

LaCroix slid his phone into his pocket and shrugged at Beckett.

The Gangrel scholar laughed. “I must say, this has all been rather entertaining for me. Never a dull night with you two, hmm?”

“Unfortunately.” LaCroix glanced at the sarcophagus. He could nearly feel power emanating from it, its mystery; he hoped that sense was not wishful thinking. The sarcophagus had to be everything the city feared, not simply a dead kine king. How else would he achieve the power necessary to ensure his survival and dominion, with Claire at his side? What choice did he have? “I fear it will only get worse.”


	12. Chapter 12

The Hallowbrook Hotel must have been beautiful, once. It still was in the way that all abandoned buildings were; a darkened, skeletal ghost of nights past, its architecture a crumbling shambles of plaster and wrought iron. Los Angeles’ Sabbat had taken up residence within, squatting in filth. Most were what kindred called ‘shovelheads’ - weak cannon fodder with little understanding of their own condition or anything other than the command to kill. They posed little threat to Claire, strong as she had become. LaCroix had tasked her with clearing out the hotel and she relished the assignment. The Sabbat had been a thorn in her side from her first night; now they’d attacked LaCroix directly. Going after her was one thing, but him? That was unforgivable.

She tore through kindred and kine alike, draining one conveniently human Sabbat servant after another to fuel her disciplines. A few humans she found were near-empty husks, their eyes torn out, seemingly deaf and catatonic; those, she killed as painlessly as possible. The Sabbat themselves were far less lucky.

Claire reached a large room that seemed to have once been the hotel’s ballroom, a silent space shattered immediately with a rush of blue arcane fire. At the top of a grand staircase was a kindred, a circular shield of magic before him, flame raging on either side of the staircase to block ascent. The kindred raised a hand and clenched it into a fist.

She stopped, pain shooting through her stomach as blood tore from it and back toward her attacker. Thaumaturgy. He was a Tremere, too; a traitor to clan and Camarilla. She hadn’t thought many yet lived.

“Antitribu!” she shouted, firing her Desert Eagle with one hand and blood strikes with the other. “Treacherous filth!”

“Come and get me, little pawn,” he said, raising his hand again.

She stumbled, bowed over as his magic tore at her body, blue fire circling her. She flicked her wrist and a blood shield enveloped her, blocking the worst of his attacks even as thirst whispered in her ear. Taking damage and using her power without sating herself was a sure path to frenzy, one she had no interest in taking. Standing straight, she stared up at the Tremere through his shield, locking eyes with him. Sharply she plunged into his mind, a blunt blast of force and no finesse. The Tremere’s concentration broke for a moment, the flames flickering out and she took that brief respite to charge up the stairs and empty her magazine into his face.

“Pawn takes knight,” she spat as he fell to ashes.

Reloading her gun, she pressed on deeper into the hotel, fighting until she reached a torch-lit basement flooded with a foot deep of blood, the charnel house stench striking her like a physical blow. Somewhere beneath that smell was that of grey rot slicked on cold stone. Tzimisce.

Glowing orange eyes blinked in a dark alcove, and the Tzimisce she’d fought in Hollywood stepped out into the light. “I recognized the smell of your blood, young Cainite,” he said. There was something disconcertingly noble in his deep voice and remote manner, contrasting with his horrific shape. “Very potent. Greater than our last meeting. I could smell it, even over the flood of my fallen brethren. Doesn’t it make you wonder?”

She leveled her Desert Eagle at his misshapen head. “It only makes me wonder why you keep getting in my way.”

“ _Puppet_ ,” he spat viciously. “The strength of your blood is all that’s saved you from yourself. Wretched, weak-minded mongrel! The blood is wasted on you. Wasted.”

She flicked her blood shield in place. “I am no one’s puppet, fiend.”

“Miserable, ignorant gutter spawn. You are blind! The sarcophagus must be destroyed!”

“Yes, yes. How long is this speech going to take? My prince is waiting for me.”

“The king of pawns!” He scoffed. “Manipulated, vile herald of Gehenna. He will burn with the sarcophagus.”

“Try it. Attack him yourself.” She readied a blood strike. “I dare you, abomination. I _dare_ you to cut through me to get to him.”

The Tzimisce snarled and dove downward into the congealing blood coating the floor, reappearing seconds later in a roaring, twisted, clawed beast’s shape, the _zulo_ form of his clan. Claire fought him as she had before, with careful focus, striking fast whenever he appeared and keeping on the move when he vanished beneath the blood. Swipes from his bone claws hurt badly, one attack sending her reeling across the room. She rallied, dodging just in time to avoid what would have been a near-fatal strike. The Tzimisce was completely inhuman, ribs bent back out of his skin, terrifying with his guttural roar and immense physical power.

Claire struck again and again, ripping at his fleshcrafted body with Thaumaturgy until muscle and skin hung in ribbons from his bones. Shaking, she drew up the last of her strength, both hands in front of her as the blood on the floor around her boiled and surged upward, blasting the shrieking Tzimisce in a final scalding gout of arcane blood. His charge toward her ended in burning ash, crumbling around her as the force of his blow fragmented into nothing.

She brushed herself off and gulped blood from the Odious Chalice, her trembling gradually fading. Slowly she made her way out of the now empty hotel and down the street toward Venture Tower. She rounded the corner near the Chantry and found herself staring into the painted face of Ming Xiao, leader of Los Angeles’ Kuei-jin. Claire had spoken to her only briefly in Chinatown; the rest she knew by reputation and rumor, and through LaCroix’s apparent use of her kind as tools for his own political ends.

“Be at peace, kindred,” she said, raising an elegant hand. “You stand amongst friends now.”

Claire’s brow creased. “Do I, Ms. Xiao?” She was careful to keep her tone cordial. “The reception I received below the Giovanni mansion was less than friendly.”

The Kuei-jin nodded, her expression solemn. “Indeed. The Chang brothers, my greatest agents, undone by the young soldier of LaCroix. It was obvious your path was greater than I, or he, had anticipated.”

“I’m sure he had some idea, or I wouldn’t have been sent after the sarcophagus.”

“Perhaps. In any case, I am impressed, kindred. That is why I’ve come to reveal to you the truth, so that you may see that you are not the fist of LaCroix but the hand that will put the final events of this war into motion.”

Xiao must not have realized that Claire knew about Grout’s murder, and the false alliance. This was an attempt to put a wedge between Claire and LaCroix, then. Unfortunately for Xiao, that splinter had already been addressed and removed. “I don’t mean to be impolite, Ms. Xiao, but I would rather not waste your time. There’s nothing that can convince me to turn my back on LaCroix. I apologize if that was unclear.”

Xiao simply looked at her in silence, her expression calm. “I see. I merely thought you should know that alliance between your prince and the Kuei-jin has come to an end.”

“Mm.” She sniffed. “I’ll convey that to him.”

“LaCroix’s zeal in recovering the Ankaran Sarcophagus has been to the exclusion of many relationships,” Xiao continued, “mine included. And I, like yourself, have been used by him in his desperate quest for power. In doing so, he has made a fatal mistake.”

“I’m sure.”

Xiao’s eyes narrowed, her mask of serene composure growing strained. “Hear these words, kindred. The sarcophagus is sealed against the ages; only the proper key will break this seal. That key now lies safely in Kuei-jin hands. Your prince’s prize cannot be had without it.”

Of course the devils had the damned key. At least that answered the question of where it was. “I’m not certain your definition of ‘safe’ will be enough to keep me out, Ms. Xiao.”

Her lip curled. “The vine of your destiny withers, kindred. Your bloodline ends with that of your puppet prince.”

The beast within her growled. “I’ve just heard someone make similar threats. He’s back in the hotel, a pile of ashes. I’d be happy to help you join him.”

Xiao smiled like a painted razor and vanished in a shimmer of clear blue-green light.

Claire frowned and continued toward the tower, walking around the pile of rubble that still remained on the sidewalk in front of it. Two police cars were parked to one side, and the officers themselves were in the lobby, presumably doing follow-up interviews with the tower’s kine and kindred employees. It had been a ‘terrorist attack’ after all; although that was true, really, it was just that it was a vampire terrorist group. She slipped past them all and up the elevator to LaCroix’s office. Everything had been mostly cleaned up. Claw marks in the marble floor of the upper lobby would take a little longer to fix.

She found LaCroix standing by the window alone. He smiled softly when he saw her. “ _Bonsoir, ma chérie_.”

“Sebastian.” She flung her arms around him and he tightly embraced her back, kissing her. Beckett was nowhere to be seen, his books and papers gone, so such a taboo was safe. “I made them suffer,” she said, stroking his hair and inhaling the black iron scent of his blood.

“I’m sure you did.” LaCroix slowly let her go. “The Sabbat will not trouble us again for many nights, I am certain, and from the anomie we shall resurrect a new order.” He caressed her cheek. “My angel,” he murmured. “My unstoppable crusader. We’ll rule this city side by side, you and I.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not much of a princess.”

“ _Pourquoi pas? Tu est petite et belle_.”

“What’s that, I'm small and pretty? You could make me sound more threatening, at least.” She punched him lightly in the arm.

“I said beautiful, actually. _Une belle terreur_.” LaCroix laughed.

“Beautiful... terror? Better.” Her brow creased. “Mm... _vous est beau, mon chéri_.”

“ _Vous êtes_ , properly. But _merci beaucoup_ , darling. I am... glad you think so.” He cleared his throat, seeming slightly embarrassed. “So, ah, any information as to the key to that damnable thing?”

Claire nodded. “I was accosted by Ming Xiao herself outside the Hallowbrook.”

LaCroix frowned. “The demoness rarely leaves Chinatown. What was she doing here?”

“It was pretty amusing, actually. She didn’t know that I already knew about the whole ‘alliance’ thing. She told me and I think expected shock, or for me to join her. She says it’s off, by the way.”

He snorted. “Irrelevant. Their usefulness has long passed. But she claims to have the key, then?”

“Yes, and essentially dared me to come take it, which is fairly hilarious.”

“Quite. Our enemies so quickly forget with whom they are dealing.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Then now is the time to put the second part of this plan into motion, to unite the city’s kindred behind us. I... hmm. I have an idea.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “Is it a good idea or a bad idea?”

“We’ll see. You will go to the Anarchs. Tell them that the blood hunt against Nines Rodriguez has been called off, that I have reconsidered, and the threat of the Kuei-jin is far greater than any of his sins.” He waved his hand. “Tell them you’re becoming disaffected with me, if that helps, but that you’ve seen what a danger the Kuei-jin pose to our kind. The Anarchs are passionate and easy to manipulate. They will tell you where Rodriguez is hiding.”

“And when they do?”

“Go find him.” LaCroix paused, thinking. “The city’s kindred do not like me, and never will, I suspect. But you? You are easy to rally behind. The determined young kindred, fighting alone, triumphing against all odds and in spite of me. They do not doubt your sincerity. If something were to happen, something terrible that you survived but Rodriguez did not...”

“So Rodriguez becomes a martyr and the Anarchs follow me?”

“Exactly. I’ll finalize the details once we know where Rodriguez is. That will determine what we do.” LaCroix ran a fingertip along her jawline. “Truth only between us, my sweet one, but lies for the rest.” He sighed softly. “Are you ready, Claire? Ready for that path of lies, and true power?”

Something within her shifted and growled. “I’m ready to do whatever it takes.”

“Good.” He tilted her chin up and kissed her deeply, his fingers running through her hair. “Nothing will stop us, _mon amour_." He leaned her backward, holding her closer to him. "Nothing.”

 

* * *

 

Too soon after, Claire was back out in the streets of downtown Los Angeles, heading toward the Anarch bar, the Last Round. She hadn’t gotten very far before she caught a scent of woodsmoke and pine, and she spun around to see Beckett coming up behind her.

“Wait,” he said. His expression was uncharacteristically strained. “About the sarcophagus.”

“Beckett? What’s wrong? You... don’t seem yourself.”

“Don’t open it, Claire.” He shook his head quickly. “Whatever you do, do _not_ open the Ankaran Sarcophagus.”

“I thought that...” Her brow creased. “Hadn’t we more or less established that it’s a dead kine inside? Its threat is its nature as a symbol of power. Did you... have you learned differently?”

Beckett’s beast’s eyes glinted with strange fear. “If the sarcophagus is opened, there will be disaster. In what form, I cannot be sure, but after studying the evidence I’m convinced now that it’s better left undisturbed. Anyone who’d pursue any other course is deserving of the consequences.”

Dread coiled around her in cold velvet cords. “But I don’t understand.”

“Just... don’t open it, Claire. Do _not_ open it and do _not_ let Sebastian open it. Do not let him convince you otherwise.” Beckett sighed. “I think you deserve a chance, childe. There is such... potential in you. Please, just... heed what I’ve said.”

Her mind flicked through possibilities. "Are... you study kindred eschatology. Are you saying that the rumors are true, that this somehow _is_ part of the end? Of Gehenna? I thought none of that was real?"

His jaw tightened. "If Gehenna has begun, then we are all doomed, no matter what course of action we take."

“Beckett...”

"I'm sorry, childe." The Gangrel shook his head. “There is a good possibility we will not meet again,” he said quietly. “Goodbye, young one.” He turned and vanished down an alley, a distant howl of farewell echoing against concrete a moment later.

“Goodbye, Beckett,” Claire whispered to the empty air, her mind sinking into a maelstrom of fear and confusion.


	13. Chapter 13

Griffith Park. That was where Nines Rodriguez was hiding, and had been for many nights. It was a smarter move than LaCroix might have expected from the Anarch. That area was on the outskirts of kindred territory, prowled by the beasts that could destroy most kindred in seconds: werewolves. Ironically, this defense would prove to be a convenient tool to twist against the Anarch leader.

Fire was all that was needed. That was the easy part.

The hard part was that Claire had to live through the encounter, for obvious personal reasons but also for political ones. Powerful as she was, there was no way she could fight a werewolf head-on and live. She’d have to escape back down into the city while Rodriguez died. She’d asserted that she could do it, confidently as always; he could hardly be certain but it was coming to the point where he had no choice. He had to survive. _They_ did, but accomplishing that put in her in far more physical danger on a night-to-night basis than it did him. Fortunately she seemed to thrive on it.

If she did, that would lead to the second part of the plan.

LaCroix was holed up in his office as usual, going over plans for war with the Kuei-jin, studying all he could about their purported abilities and nature. He could scarcely concentrate, waiting for Claire to call him when she was on her way out of Griffith Park.

He jumped when the buzzer for the tower’s intercom went off. “What is it?” he answered sharply.

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. LaCroix. There’s a visitor here to see you.”

“And? Who is it?”

“A Mr., uh...” The kine paused. LaCroix heard a low voice in the background. “Strauss.”

Christ have mercy. “Fine. Send him up.”

In a moment, the Tremere primogen stepped into his office, his pace and bearing carefully measured as always.

“Regent.” LaCroix leaned back in his chair, smoothing his anxious impatience as best he could. “As much as I do appreciate your visit, please understand that I am exceptionally busy this evening. If you would keep your concerns as succinct as possible?”

Strauss gazed at him impassively, then glanced at the sarcophagus. “I am certain you are, Prince.”

LaCroix narrowed his eyes, waiting for the Tremere to continue.

“I believe that perhaps my queries have been too circumspect, that a more direct line of questioning may be best. I am... concerned. Personally so.” Strauss stepped closer to the desk, hands folded behind his back. “My apprentice is intimately involved in this matter; her Tremere blood is a precious rarity these nights, one I would dread to see... squandered.”

“Have I not already given my answer on that matter? The fledgling has handled every assignment capably and without complaint.”

“Indeed. She is an obedient childe, one any sire - whether in blood or by proxy - would be proud to have. You must value her unquestioning service greatly.”

“What is your question, Strauss?”

Strauss’ chin raised a fraction. “How do you intend to use the Ankaran Sarcophagus?”

LaCroix waved his hand. “As I am right now. It is a symbol of power; the Camarilla having it gives us power. The key is in the city’s reaction to it, not in the sarcophagus itself.”

“The key is, in fact,  _the key_ ,” Strauss said, uncharacteristically terse.

“I am not certain what you mean.”

“Is that not what is now being sought, Prince?”

“A key exists, yes. Another tool, another symbol. It ought to be in Camarilla hands as well.”

“In Camarilla hands.”

This was ridiculous. He glanced idly at his phone on the desk; nothing. “...Is that not what I said?”

“One of the most important lessons one may ever learn is that words and meanings are not synonymous.”

LaCroix sighed. “As Prince, clearly these items would be physically in my possession. Why is that controversial?”

“It is not.”

LaCroix threw up his hands. “Then what is it you want from me, Regent Strauss?”

Strauss only blinked, his expression unchanging. “By their very nature, the lock and key, when in the same location, have a clear implication.”

“It hardly matters, The sarcophagus only holds a dead kine king.”

“Does it? I had not been informed of Beckett’s conclusions, or of their evidently absolute certainty. Forgive me, Prince, but again I must ask: _how_ do you intend to use the sarcophagus?”

LaCroix’s phone rang. He kept his eyes fixed on Strauss, knuckles whitening on the arms of his chair.

“Please.” Strauss adjusted his glasses with one finger. “Do not abstain from vital business on my account.”

His jaw tightened. “You are dismissed, primogen. I have already answered you; I will not repeat myself.” His phone kept ringing, going to voicemail.

The Tremere looked at him in silence for a moment, then bowed. “Good evening, Prince LaCroix.” He turned and left.

The second the office doors shut, LaCroix snatched up his phone. It had been Claire; he called her back immediately. The phone rang several times.

“Sebastian. I’m out.”

He sighed deeply with relief, rubbing his forehead. “ _Chérie_. I am so glad to hear from you. Are you all right? Are you safe?”

“Yeah. Barely.” She sounded breathless, strained. “No more werewolves, okay?’

“Definitely not. You are uninjured?”

“Nothing blood can’t fix.” He heard a car door close, the creaking of a leather seat. “Rodriguez is dead. A werewolf pounced right on him, knocked him off the side of the hill.”

“Good, good. I...” LaCroix paused, frowning. “Wait, you didn’t actually see him die?”

“Sebastian, there’s no way he didn’t. Trust me. _I’m_ pretty much held together by sheer will right now and I didn’t get tossed off a cliff.”

“I’m sorry, Claire.” Something in him twisted. “I... wish I could be there to help you, my darling.”

“I’ll manage.” She exhaled. “So, plan is, I go to my old haven in Santa Monica, correct?”

“Yes. Stay there through the day; by next nightfall, I will have ‘learned’ what you’ve allegedly done, and I will call the hunt.”

“Delightful. Then I just have to mow through God knows how many kindred to get back to you for our confrontation about your ‘misunderstanding.’”

“Exactly.” LaCroix sighed. “This is the best way. It establishes that you are an independent actor, but also that I am not without mercy, that I put the unity of kindred above anything.”

She sniffed. “To be perfectly honest, I’m... not entirely convinced this is the best idea.”

“Of course it is. It also reveals who is willing to raise their hand against you, and who is not. Those who do will be the most zealous Anarchs - individuals who place their philosophy first and who need to be purged from our ranks if we are to triumph against the Kuei-jin. I’m convinced most will not answer the call, however. They’ll unify behind you, Claire, all the more if they believe I have turned on you.” He waved his hand. “You’ll come back, confront me, and I’ll be suitably humbled in everyone’s eyes.”

“I’m pretty sure this is going to damage your reputation further?”

“Trust me, Claire. Elevating you is my way onward. Then, when this little Anarch madness is resolved, we will attack the Kuei-jin and get the key.”

“I just... I don’t know.”

He frowned. “I understand your misgivings, my dear, but I was under the impression that we’d already settled on this course of action?”

“ _You_ have.”

“Claire, I'm not particularly interested in arguing at the moment. I have had my fill of that tonight.”

She said nothing for a moment, then sighed. “Did a werewolf attack you, too?”

“Worse. Strauss. Verbally, of course.”

“Let’s hope so, because I’m pretty sure he could eviscerate any one of us.”

LaCroix snorted. “The mage? Please.”

“Yes, _the mage_. My regent. Underestimating him is a very, very bad idea, Sebastian. He has a serious problem with you.”

“He’s going to sit in his Chantry, mutter about my incompetence, perhaps cast a spell or two, and then fall asleep on a book when daylight comes. Let him plot. We will deal with him as soon as we have the key. He will be no more threat than a gnat, then.”

She paused. “Why won't he be a threat, exactly? We haven’t... the sarcophagus. I’m... worried about that, too.”

LaCroix sighed sharply, rubbing his temple. “You have trusted me until now. Do you still trust me?”

“You know I do.”

“Then don’t worry.”

She huffed in seeming frustration. “You know, it is okay to raise valid concerns. That’s not the same as questioning someone.”

“A very fine point, my darling.”

“Everyone thinks you mean to diablerize whatever’s inside,” she blurted. “I know Strauss does. He tried to get me to talk to him the other night, and I avoided it. Is that... do you really intend to... do something like that?”

“I thought that I was Prince of the Camarilla, not a Sabbat degenerate. Perhaps I have not made that clear to the city’s kindred, or to you.”

“You’ve said we should do whatever it takes. I’m just asking what that might be.” She took a shaky breath. “Please, Sebastian. Please don’t lie to me.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “What we do is determinate upon what we find in the sarcophagus,” he said. “You and I will survive. Whatever that entails is what I will do. But I am not a monster. I swear that to you.” He was. He always had been. Being vague and even untruthful hurt him less than her condemnation would; that, he could not bear. She could be convinced, when the time came. He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “All right, Claire? I will do nothing without your consent. I need you at my side, now more than ever.”

For a while she said nothing; he almost thought she’d hung up or lost signal. “All right,” she said finally. “Just... please don’t do anything stupid. I don’t... I don’t want to lose you, okay? Is that too human a sentiment?”

His chest felt tight. “Nor I you, my angel.” He sighed. “Please, _please_ be safe. Update me as often as you can.”

“I will. _Tu me manques._ ”

“ _Tu me manques toujours, mon amour. Toujours._ ” The call ended.

 

* * *

  

 

> _Pronouncement to the Camarilla of Los Angeles, California._
> 
>   
>  Sorrow has fallen upon our community far too often these nights. The final deaths of Primogen Alistair Grout and Nines Rodriguez have been severe blows to both the morale and leadership ranks of our kind, even as we gird ourselves for war against the demons of the East. I come to you tonight with a personal sorrow, one I am loathe to accept but one that I cannot deny.
> 
> The fledgling Claire Farington has been as my own childe since I spared her life after her illegitimate siring at the hands of now executed Tremere Alexander Germaine. She has been an exemplary agent, assisting myself and the kindred of this city in myriad ways. Last night she was tasked with the most important assignment I had on offer: meeting with Nines Rodriguez to negotiate a true union between the Camarilla and our Anarch scions. Rodriguez, as you know, had been absolved of any role in the heinous murder of Primogen Grout - a crime truly that of the Kuei-jin.
> 
> This meeting ended in the death of Rodriguez, and in Farington’s apparent flight. Camarilla agents have confirmed that fires were deliberately set in Griffith Park in order to rouse its werewolf population, an indirect way to end the life of Rodriguez. These agents have also confirmed that no other conclusion may be drawn than that those fires were set by Farington herself.
> 
> Whether this act was born of misdirected zeal for the Camarilla, her youth, or even a moment of the Beast’s dominion, only Farington can say. But through her actions, she has betrayed both the Camarilla and myself personally, a blow I cannot but confess has hurt me greatly. You all know the faith I have placed in the young fledgling, how I held back the blade of law from her neck once before. I cannot do so again.
> 
> I, Prince Sebastian LaCroix of Los Angeles, declare a blood hunt upon Claire Farington. May the night smile upon the good kindred of our city, and may her wayward blood, once shed, feed the foundation of our greater union.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thank you to everyone for your kind comments and feedback! I've loved this game and these characters for a very long time and am really enjoying writing this story. I'm very glad you folks are enjoying reading it <3


	14. Chapter 14

Far more kindred than either of them had expected came out for the blood hunt. Perhaps it was their beast, longing for destruction, or perhaps they saw her as an agent of LaCroix still despite his disavowal - all lies, of course. Claire had definite misgivings about what he intended to do with the sarcophagus’ contents, believing that he might indeed turn to diablerie, even though he had - vaguely - asserted otherwise. She hadn’t decided what she thought of that yet. After all, Tremere himself had once diablerized the father of the Salubri clan, Saulot. That legacy was in her blood; condemning the act outright seemed hypocritical.

The rest of the Camarilla certainly would, though, and it wasn’t as if LaCroix would be able to conceal a massive increase in his power. Strauss would know. Strauss was already watching LaCroix very carefully; LaCroix might dismiss the threat that the Regent posed, but Claire did not. She wasn’t sure what precise action he would take, but it could mean nothing but danger for the two of them.

Claire fought her way back to downtown, killing one young kindred after another until she lost count. There was a certain joy in destruction, an ironic beauty in watching beings so dependent upon blood be torn apart and killed with that same vitae. That joy didn’t prevent her from getting hurt, though. She emptied and filled her Chalice over and over, draining what few kine she could find still out on the streets, just to keep herself going, but she did make it. Venture Tower’s lobby was deserted and she slipped her way up the elevator into LaCroix’s office.

She left bloody footprints - mostly not her own blood - on the parquet floor, her steps slowed by the injuries she’d received. LaCroix was waiting, his expression turning anxious when he saw her.

“ _Claire_.” He procured a blood pack and brought it to her lips, helping her sit down on one of the chaises.

“I’m fine, really,” she said, accepting the blood.

“Hush, now. Drink.” He took off his suit jacket and wrapped it around her. His brow was furrowed; he stroked her hair gently. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t think... I thought it would only be a few.”

“So did I.” She emptied the last drop and smiled weakly. “I think your level of popularity has rubbed off on me.”

“I certainly hope not.” He sat next to her and slid his arm around her, cradling her tired frame. “Please forgive me.”

“For what? Sending me out to nearly get killed all the time?” She chuckled. “I’ve gotten used to it.”

He kissed the top of her head. “When this is all over, you’ll never have to again.”

“Mm. I’ve gotten a lot older in a short time - I think I’m ready for retirement.”

“You’d get bored if you went that far.”

“Nah. I mean, I’d take breaks and kill a few people now and again, but I’d like the down time. There are so many books I want to read. I could even actually learn French.’

LaCroix smiled. “ _Oui, ma petite fille._ I enjoy our lessons very much.”

“Oh, I know you do.” She curled against him. “Sorry about the blood on your shirt.”

“Not at all. Although, I must say _you_ enjoy ruining my things. And being insolent.”

“It’s not so much being insolent as annoying you in the most affectionate way possible.”

“Is that what you call it?” He laughed and held her closer. They were silent for a time; she felt something like peace, though of course it could not last. She had to get the key from the Kuei-jin.

“So,” she asked, “should we start yelling so anyone eavesdropping thinks we’re having an argument about how you tried to have me killed over a misunderstanding?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” He sighed. “I cannot wait until all of this is resolved. No one with any intelligence will dare challenge us. If any fool does, we’ll be strong enough to annihilate them. I will rule and protect this city from anything that comes her way; an orderly haven of sanity and civilization. I’ll protect _you_ for a change, my brave little angel.”

The implication frightened her. Beckett had warned her against opening the sarcophagus, after all, but perhaps he had been caught up in his own research and myths he’d uncovered. She’d gotten caught up with certain ideas before. She supposed that as long as LaCroix opened it with her there, she could defend him if there was any danger. Besides, as Beckett had said, if it really was _the end_ then everyone was doomed regardless. “Sebastian?”

“Yes?”

She sat up a little so she could look him in the eye. “Can you teach me another phrase?”

“Of course, _chérie_.”

“How do you say ‘I love you no matter what happens?’”

LaCroix stared at her, lips parted. A soft whimpering sound caught in his throat and he kissed her deeply, burying his long fingers in her hair. For the briefest moment, she allowed herself to forget everything else, to be consumed.

“Is _that_ French now?” she asked playfully after a few minutes, stroking his cheek.

“More or less,” he breathed. “Merciful Christ, girl. You’ve ruined me.”

“Only in the best possible way.”

He kissed her again, smiling against her lips. “ _Je t'aime_ ,” he murmured, “ _quoi qu'il arrive_.”

“Mm. I might need to practice that later.”

“So will I, my sweet girl.” His brow furrowed. “So will I.” After a moment, he sighed. “I suppose I ought to announce that everyone needs to stop trying to kill you, and you need to go to Chinatown.”

“I _suppose_. Duty calls.”

“Are you well enough, now? I can get you more blood.”

She sat up, gingerly at first, but nothing was amiss. “I’m fine. I’m ready to do this.”

“Excellent.” LaCroix helped her to her feet, then pressed the back of her hand to his lips. “Do not be long, Claire. I would like to celebrate our victory with you.”

“That sounds lovely.” She squeezed his hand before letting him go. “ _À bientôt._ ”

He smiled softly. “ _À bientôt_.”

 

* * *

 

The Kuei-jin’s Golden Temple had surprisingly few Kuei-jin and more kine with swords and crossbows, all of whom made excellent fuel for her disciplines and were easily dispatched. Claire supposed that actual Kuei-jin were rare, and that their outpost in Chinatown was just that: the first settlement, the landing point for an invasion. The temple’s lacquered artifice suited its main resident well.

Many, many bullets and blood strikes later, Claire stepped through a strange circle of light to find herself in a watery, open basement. At its center stood Ming Xiao; behind her, a large statue, with a strange object that Claire guessed had to be the sarcophagus’ key at its base.

“You’ve become a grave disappointment, kindred,” Xiao spat. “This was not meant to be your destination, but your path will end here.”

“You have no idea what my path is, demon.” Claire flicked a heavy blood shield around her and raised her Desert Eagle.

“You were never more than a pawn, kindred; a puppet of those who drew the boundaries on your horizon. Your prince, most of all. He has used you, and, here, demonstrates his willingness to sacrifice your life in a fruitless battle. He is without wisdom, and cannot see your true potential as I can.”

The beast in her growled. “You know even less about him that you do about me.”

Xiao frowned sharply. “I will not let you or anyone have the power of the sarcophagus!”

“That’s not your decision to make.”

Power swirled around her. “You will have time to ponder this folly as you are devoured by worms and disease in the hell of burrowing maggots! A thousand years shall you suffer.” Ming Xiao raised her hands and blue-green light engulfed her, spinning and growing until it shaped itself into a massive, bizarre cephalopodic form.

Claire dodged as Xiao swung stinging tentacles, water splashing beneath them. This bestial form was faster than it looked, her strikes unpredictable. When Claire injured her badly, a part of her slimy body separated off and formed into a new creature, just as strong as the first. It took endurance, and attacking as hard as she could when she had the opportunity, but eventually she had the true Xiao nearly dead. The beast lashed out, knocking Claire across the room hard enough to break the pillar she struck. Claire gritted her teeth and stretched out both hands, blood pouring along them and past Xiao’s tentacles, down her throat. The thing spluttered, flailing wildly as the thick blood within her swelled and boiled, bursting outward in a fatal wound. She collapsed, not turning to ash as a kindred would, but leaving a body that looked oddly spongy and deflated.

Stepping around her carcass, Claire grasped the key to the sarcophagus, its weight greater than its size would suggest. Dread murmured softly in her ear, its cold seeping into her bones.

Was this really what she wanted?

It was what LaCroix wanted, but she wasn’t him, no matter how much she cared for him. Did she really want to unleash whatever might be inside, potentially an enemy far stronger than anything she or the vast majority of kindred had ever encountered? Or a resource for LaCroix to drain, to absorb its power and become... what? Something far more powerful and terrifying, something to fuel the hate of everyone around him into loathing? Would he forget himself? Would he forget her?

But what choice did she have, now?

Defiance was always an option, but not one she thought she could bear. If she somehow hid the key, or disposed of it in some way, he would know. She’d never been a good liar and she certainly wouldn’t be able to fool him at his own game. No, she had to bring him the key. And then?

She had committed herself to him, to follow him through to the end. If he believed with such conviction that this was the best and only option, then surely it was. He was far older and more experienced than her. Who was she to say it was unwise, to let her personal feelings about the risk to him stop what had to be done?

Perhaps Ming Xiao had been right, in a way. Claire had a path. She’d had one from the beginning. The fatalism of it was not reassuring, but Claire supposed that kindred life was one of inescapable consequences. She adored LaCroix, for all his faults. That was the truth. And the truth was, she’d never had any choice about what to do.

The key and lock were going to meet, one way or another, and the sarcophagus would open.

_Quoi qu'il arrive._

Taking a breath, she stepped back through the circle of light.

 

* * *

 

Claire walked into the office, key in hand; LaCroix met her halfway to his desk, scooped her up and spun her around. She laughed despite her worries, embracing him back as he kissed her. He looked relieved. “I knew you’d succeed, _ma bien-aimée_.” He smiled warmly. “You always do. You are unstoppable.”

She grinned. “My track record _is_ fairly good, if I do say so myself.”

“And here we are.” He exhaled, looking at the key curiously. “I suppose this is it, then. The moment when we finally answer just what is inside this blasted thing. Or who.”

Her smile faded. “Yeah. I guess so.”

LaCroix caressed her cheek. “It is all right to be frightened, Claire. I’m a little apprehensive, too. But there is power within that sarcophagus, power great enough that no one on this coast will be able to stand against me, nor you at my side. We’ll be safe, secure for an eternity. I promise you.”

“Okay.” She sighed, resolved. “Here.” She held up the key for him to take.

He shook his head. “You have earned the right, my love. Open it. I am right here.”

Claire hesitated for a long moment, then turned to face the sarcophagus. The key seemed to grow heavier in her hand as she raised it and placed it on top, near the hole it went into. LaCroix’s hand rested on the small of her back, the scent of his red-wine-and-iron blood heavy in her senses. Still she paused, glancing back at him; he smiled encouragingly.

The beast within her screamed.

She pushed the key into the hole and started to turn it.

Instantly a force like an iron poker drove hotly into her brain, freezing her hand in place and forcing it back away from the key without turning it the rest of the way. Hazily she noticed LaCroix turning away from her, toward his desk; a shape materialized in his chair from a mirage-like shimmer of Obfuscate.

Maximillian Strauss.

“Neonate,” he said, rising slowly. Several kindred appeared to either side of him, some Tremere, others not. All had weapons trained on the two of them. “I must ask that you step back for a moment. Your blood is too valuable.”

Claire’s body moved back from the sarcophagus though every nerve within her was shrieking and straining to fight.

“What is the meaning of this?” LaCroix demanded.

“You already know. You have been given ample warning, which you have chosen to ignore.” Strauss stepped forward, his pace languid and measured as a wolf approaching its prey. “The Camarilla of this city cannot be led by a scheming, debauched diablerist.”

She was barely able to turn her head and saw that LaCroix’s face had paled, his eyes wide, his hands clenched into fists. “But they _can_ be led by you, correct? You speak of scheming but here you are, seeking to supplant me. Treacherous usurper.”

“Treacherous?” Strauss raised an eyebrow. “The only treachery I have witnessed is that of the Prince of Los Angeles allying himself with the Kuei-jin.” He waved his hand. “Deny it, if you wish to spend what time you have on impotent protestations. Observation and collection of evidence have all proven the truth. You would sell any one of the kindred under your care to advance your own agenda.”

LaCroix’s nostrils flared. “Hypocrite.”

“Demon,” Strauss spat back. “You have manipulated and corrupted a fledgling of my clan’s blood, misused her and fornicated with her, turned her into a vessel for your unspeakable crimes.”

He took a step forward, faint blue flickering around his fists. The vampires surrounding Strauss did the same, though Strauss himself did not move. Claire was still essentially paralyzed. “Do _not_ speak of her.”

“She is of my blood. Her purpose is within the Pyramid, and so it shall be after tonight.” The Regent glanced at Claire. “She never underwent the Transubstantiation of Seven, an oversight on our part. That will soon be rectified.”

LaCroix trembled with powerless anger. “Claire has done nothing but what I commanded her. Leave her be, and get out of her head. Now.”

“So you can attempt to use her as a weapon against me?" The Regent shook his head. "No, Ventrue. There are no more moves left for you in this game. You know that you have lost.”

Claire closed her eyes, focusing as hard as she could on her rage, building and burning inside of her. They meant to depose him. They meant to _kill_ him. They meant to enslave her.

A puppet.

She could feel her blood boiling under her skin.

“You are undone, LaCroix,” Strauss said quietly. “Submit to the Camarilla justice you have subverted for so long, or perish tonight.”

LaCroix’s mind touched hers, a frightened, cold caress, pushing her as she began to fracture Strauss’ control. The beast within her roared and snapped her paralysis and she reached for the key.

“No.” Strauss flicked his wrist and a gout of molten blood shot from his hand, blasting into the key and shattering the stone, without cracking the sarcophagus itself. “It shall never be opened.”

LaCroix shrieked wordlessly and leaned over the sarcophagus, clawing at the blood-clogged keyhole.

The distraction of destroying the key broke what dominion Strauss still had over Claire’s mind and she charged forward. The first kindred she reached burst into a cloud of gore, striking those beside him with burning flecks of his fragmenting corpse. She tore wildly, killing two more, then charging the strongest blood strike she could and aiming it straight at Strauss’ head.

The Regent did not blink. He caught her wrist with one hand, something in his other hand plunging into her heart. Numbness washed over her, darkness enveloping her with the cold claustrophobia of an iron coffin.

Behind her, she heard LaCroix scream before she sank into unconsciousness.


	15. Chapter 15

It felt like dying again, like an echo of his memory of his first death. Most Ventrue were treated with honor by their sires, carefully chosen and taught how to climb to power. He’d been embraced by a Belgian noble, an enemy of the Grand Armée in which he was an officer. _Embraced_ was the wrong word. He had been attacked and forcibly turned into a kindred as the nobleman laughed; he did not laugh later, when LaCroix hunted him down and left him out for the sun’s anguishing death. He could still feel the pain and horror of it, sometimes, the shocking violation, the sword and fangs at his throat. He’d always done whatever was necessary to survive, but the embrace changed him in other ways as well. There could be no room for weakness, for letting his guard down. He had to be more clever than his enemies, more ruthless. He’d become skilled and endured through trials that would have crushed lesser kindred.

Perhaps that was why hubris had such a fierce grip on him. His disdain and narrow focus on the sarcophagus had left him blind to the threat from within the Camarilla, brewing right under his nose. It was a mistake he would never make again, since it was likely to have been his last.

They hadn’t even given him the questionable mercy of a quick execution. Presumably the ponderous blood-slicked wheels of Maximillian Strauss were spinning through collecting evidence and ensuring that everything was crossed and dotted, so the city’s kindred would see his ascension as a rightful one, and not merely a power grab against an unpopular ruler - although that was precisely what it was. Not that LaCroix wasn’t guilty, of course. He always had been.

Or perhaps the only motive was to make him suffer. Wasn’t that what he deserved?

No quick death for the fallen prince; not like his sheriff, who’d died like an animal in the lobby of Venture Tower before Strauss sprang his trap. LaCroix was locked away somewhere he could not identify, featureless concrete walls and halls, kept in near darkness at all times. He saw no one. Half-empty blood packs would appear through a slot in the door on occasion, barely enough to prevent him from frenzying due to starvation. Agony - physical, mental, and emotional - was all he knew, and in that silent darkness all he could do was think and fear.

Old memories whispered in his mind, but strongest of all was Claire. He could nearly see her, taste her, his need for her almost as great as his hunger for blood. What had they done to her? Was she somewhere far above him, her goals now in line with her clanmates after undergoing a Tremere ritual? Was she perhaps even fully blood-bound, a servant of Strauss with nothing left of the woman he’d known, her emotions twisted by vitae’s power until she thought nothing of him at all? Or had she willingly joined with the other Camarilla, convinced that her only way to survive was to fight for the victor in such a merciless game? That would be the wisest choice for her. He was finished, surely. It did not take his Ventrue blood to recognize the utter opposite of power.

_I love you no matter what happens._

It broke him.

LaCroix smelled several kindred from down the hall, footsteps approaching his cell. He pressed back against the wall and waited; he stayed still, growling as they swung open the door and entered. They muttered some kind of abuse he barely heard before plunging a stake into his heart.

 

* * *

 

Sharp scraping and a wet hollow sound and he was on his knees on the Nocturne Theatre stage, more seats occupied than he’d seen in a long time. A dozen kindred flanked him; Strauss stood at the edge of the stage, hands folded behind his back.

LaCroix laughed, mad and bitter, until one of the other kindred kicked him.

The crowd was filled with murmurs and jeers, clawed fingers pointing at him. He noted Golden with Tung and his other Nosferatu, Abrams and his glittering Toreadors, Voerman, and a raucous group of Anarchs who seemed incredibly entertained and pleased with themselves. Hate was a thick, palpable presence. They all hated him. He’d never been liked but it had turned into something else, something he could nearly smell, acrid and congealed on his tongue.

“See that the criminal yet lives,” said Strauss, evidently midway through a speech. “It is my goal that this governance will be one of transparency, of adhering carefully to the letter and intent of Camarilla law.”

“Kill him!” someone in the crowd shouted, a cry repeated by many others. “ _Kill him!_ ” LaCroix mustered a glare for the crowd; a few fell silent but most only laughed.

Strauss nodded thoughtfully. “Fervor has its place, but it cannot be our guide, particularly not at this delicate time. We must not act rashly or without due diligence; such behavior is partially responsible for the situation we are in. Camarilla rule must be careful and absolute.”

The crowd murmured and LaCroix scoffed. Did Strauss truly think that Los Angeles would respond any better to his brand of painfully reserved control, administered by a blood warlock? Hardly. With his clan in lockstep, though, presumably he would have the power to enforce that rule. Where were the Tremere? Strauss had always favored the balcony. LaCroix turned as best as he could to look behind and upward, and as he did shock struck him in an icy wave.

Claire.

She stood among a group of fellow Tremere, hair pulled back, her posture stiff. Her expression was impassive, her eyes staring out over the crowd. The beast within him roared and screamed, clawing at his insides, and his parched lips parted as he tried to speak her name. Two of the kindred behind him pushed him roughly, forcing him to face forward again. His body trembled. She was alive. She was alive and... what? Enslaved? Complicit? It twisted and tore at him, razors in his chest.

“Have no doubt,” Strauss continued, “that Sebastian LaCroix’s full crimes will be laid bare before all of you, my fellow kindred. It will be made entirely clear why this action was necessary, that it is a transfer of power based not in our mutual emotions or personal assessments of the offending individual, but in indisputable fact.”

“What have you done with the sarcophagus?” someone in the crowd asked, followed by murmuring.

“That is another important announcement, so that we may no longer be swayed by rumor and fear.” Strauss raised his chin. “The key to the Ankaran Sarcophagus was destroyed, to prevent the former prince from using what we presumed was its power. However, the sarcophagus was scanned with the most advanced technology available to kine or kindred, both technical and arcane, such that its permanent storage could be guaranteed safe.” The Tremere paused. “We were surprised to find that the sarcophagus’ ancient contents, whatever they were, were not present.”

Frightened whispers washed over the crowd. Impossible. Then...

“Instead, within the sarcophagus was a large quantity of powerful explosive material, wired to the lid such that opening it would trigger a blast large enough to kill nearly any kindred in its radius.”

LaCroix stifled a confused, bitter laugh. It had been for nothing. It had _all_ been for nothing.

“I believe that this trap was set by a specific kindred, due to evidence which will be discussed at a later date. I ask that anyone who knows anything about this act, or about what has been done with the sarcophagus’ contents, please come forward and speak with either myself or your primogen.”

The crowd began talking among themselves again, and LaCroix glanced back at Claire. She still did not look at him, but he frowned as he noticed her lips were moving. He stared, trying to figure out what she was saying.

It took a moment for him to realize it was French.

 _Tenir bon_ , she was mouthing, over and over. _Tenir bon_.

_Hold on._

Near-delirious hope seized him. For a split second she met his eyes, hers burning gold.

 _Tenir bon_ , he mouthed back. Her lips twitched.

One of the kindred struck him so hard a spatter of blood hit the stage as his head snapped to the side from the blow. Laughter welled from the crowd.

“Enough,” Strauss said, the low command in his voice silencing them. “We are not animals.” The kindred who’d hit LaCroix took a step back, seemingly chastised, and another took his place. “The offender will be imprisoned once more, until his trial begins three nights hence.”

The stake pierced back into his heart, darkness overtaking him.

 

* * *

 

He waited, counting time in endless desperation. His angel, drenched in blood. _Son bien-aimée_. Thoughts of her, of hope and terror, love and rage, spun through him in formless chaos. What had it meant? Was she somehow planning something? How, if she was with the Tremere? Was it merely a phrase murmured for herself, as she struggled with her new existence? That would be more logical. There was no sense in throwing one’s life away in a hopeless assault.

Although, Claire had never shown much reserve when it came to plunging into conflict.

He sat in silent darkness, gathering his meandering thoughts as best he could, waiting for the next visit from whatever poor soul was tasked with bringing him blood. Footsteps on concrete and he stood shakily, peering out the tiny square window in the door. It was a kindred, a Brujah judging by his clothing’s resemblance to that of most miscreant kine. He stopped at the door, a thin blood pack in his hand.

“Back up, prissy piece of shit,” he growled.

LaCroix struggled to focus and fixed his eyes on the Brujah’s. He slipped into the kindred’s mind with far less finesse than he would have had if he wasn’t near starving, the guard’s brain a thorny tangle. “Give...” LaCroix cleared his throat. “Give me your phone.”

The Brujah laughed, but a muscle in his cheek twinged. “Go fuck yourself.”

LaCroix twisted and sharpened in the kindred’s mind, pinning down his willpower with iron claws. “ _Give me your phone_.”

The Brujah’s expression turned dazed. “Sure, no problem, man.” He slipped the blood pack and a slim cellphone through the slot at the base of the door.

“You left your phone in a taxi,” LaCroix said.

“Goddamn it! Fuckin’ cabbie probably already sold it, too. Gonna beat his sorry ass.”

“Indeed.”

The Brujah stalked off, muttering to himself, and LaCroix quickly crouched to grab the phone and drink what little blood they’d allotted him. He dialed Claire’s number, hoping that her phone hadn’t been taken from her.

It rang.

Again.

By the fifth ring, disappointment had resettled itself like a millstone in his gut.

“ _You have reached the voicemail of:_ ”

“You know who,” came Claire’s voice, its light sweetness cutting through him.

“ _After the beep, please leave a message_.” A cheery tone chirped in his ear.

“Claire.” His voice felt thick and raspy. “Sweet Claire. You have cheated death so often I fear your luck will end, as mine has. Do what you think you can, but do not die for me.” He paused, then exhaled, a sound that rattled in his chest. “I have never sired, but perhaps you can carry whatever paltry legacy remains of my blood. You must adapt and press on. Do not let them destroy you, my sweet girl. Fight. Survive. Remain yourself.” A dry sob caught in his throat. “It’s quite likely I will never see you again, but I’m going to continue to act the fool and say _à bientôt_ , my love. Do not forget me.”

He ended the call and sank to the floor, his head in his hands.


	16. Chapter 16

Peace. Soothing, gentle, thoughtful peace. The power of clan Tremere sank into her blood, into her bones, whispers of a legacy of knowledge without price, of secrecy, of endurance despite the fear and judgment of others. The clan was above all, more than the Camarilla, more than any personal attachments. All of this information melded with each cell of her blood as the mix of the Seven’s vitae slid down her throat, passively accepting it as one would accept any other coldly inarguable fact, like gravity or the heat of flame.

One night, the kindred of Los Angeles would stop underestimating her.

The Transubstantiation of Seven ritual was intended for newly embraced Tremere, a general and fairly mild bond that had definite power but was not as all-consuming as a full blood bond. Her clan assumed it would be enough to leash her, as it was for her clanmates. But she was far more powerful than a brand new Tremere. Her disciplines and willpower had grown remarkably strong, as noted by every kindred with any sort of insight; evidently the faith Maximillian Strauss placed in his ritual was greater than his assessment of Claire. Because, while her understanding was slightly changed, and she was better able to see things from her clan’s perspective, her ultimate goals and desires were unaffected. She had not burned gallons of her own blood and shed gallons of others to be completely overtaken by a single draught of mixed Tremere vitae.

They didn’t need to know that, though.

_Are you ready for the path of lies?_

She wasn’t acting against her clan, per se, which made resisting the ritual’s influence easier. The other Tremere could do whatever they liked in the city, rule it to their hearts’ content. What she wanted was to escape with LaCroix, free and whole and hers. It hurt to think of him; she could think of little else. She’d learned early on that he had not been killed outright but was being held prisoner, a fact that gave her desperate hope. The thought of what he was most likely enduring, alone in some dark hole, enraged and deeply saddened her. No one understood. No one knew him as she did. He was her crooked anchor, her flawed and broken prince; she loved him for it, everyone else be damned.

What little moral reserve she had left had vanished on her second visit to the Nocturne Theatre, this time as spectator rather than accused. She was almost grateful for the ritual’s weak restraint, because when she saw him, it took every ounce of her willpower not to leap down from the balcony and start slaughtering whoever she could reach. They’d brought him in staked, then woken him and forced him to his knees, clothing dirty and torn, pale eyes staring out at the crowd that was calling for his final death. She wanted to kill every single one of them. Every tongue torn out, every drop of blood ripped from inside them as their shouts turned to guttural screams, sweet as music.

But even she could not survive such a battle, so she stood in silence, lips she longed to press to his bending instead into a message as much for herself as for him.

_Tenir bon._

Yet time was running out.

“Good evening, neonate.” Strauss’ voice interrupted her thoughts as he approached her in the Chantry’s library.

“Good evening, sir.” She sat at a long table surrounded by books, taking thoughtful notes in a small book. She was clean, penitent, and obedient, on the outside. The ritual had made that easy.

Beneath her skin, her beast waited.

Strauss assessed her in silence for a moment. “It is good to see you doing so well, Claire. I had feared that perhaps the traitor’s dominating machinations yet had claws in your mind, but it appears you are more or less free of them, even after having seen him again.”

“Yes, Regent.” She smiled. “I... hadn’t realized how much I was being controlled by the will of another. It was good for me to see him suitably humbled.”

“Indeed. Dominate is a frightening thing. His skill with that discipline is well-known and must be acknowledged; without it I doubt he would have attained the rank of Prince, however briefly.” Strauss sighed. “Would that I could have liberated you sooner. It took time to realize how extensive his misuse of you truly was.”

“As it did for me.”

“Understandably so. But love of-”

She startled slightly as her phone went off. “Oh God, I’m sorry.” Reaching into her pocket, she quickly switched it to silent.

He looked vaguely amused. “You are forgiven, neonate. You are, after all, very young. But as I was saying, love of power always leads to betrayal. The Beast takes many forms within us, and, sadly, it seems that LaCroix surrendered to its power long ago. It is never a trivial matter to depose a Prince and to judge him, but in this case there was truly no choice. Understand that I wish only for what is best, for our clan, the Camarilla, and yourself personally.”

“I do understand, sir.” Claire summoned her softest smile. She was a good girl. So very good. “You’ve been nothing but kind and merciful to me.”

Strauss’ pale lips twisted in the faintest smile in return. “Thank you, young one. You have had a very challenging start, even beginning with the tragedy of your sire, but I believe you will be an asset to the clan yet. Once LaCroix has suffered final death, the last of his influence over you will vanish, and you will be free to fulfill your role as apprentice within the Pyramid.”

She nodded, brow creasing. “That will be... difficult for me, I admit. To watch him die, after... everything.” A fraction of honesty was the best way to make lies palatable. “I hope you don’t think less of me for that.”

Strauss leaned slightly on the corner of the table and shook his head. “You were the victim in all of this. You are but a fledgling; the responsibility for your actions falls upon those who ought to guide you. I do not expect that your return to the fold will be without hardship. That is normal, even in response to one who has so wronged you. Merely stay this course, and all will be well. You will endure it, I believe.”

“Thank you, Regent.”

“Thank _you_ , neonate.”

Strauss left. The pen in her hand snapped from how tightly she’d been gripping it. Struggling to maintain her composure, she idly checked her phone. An unknown number had called and left a voicemail. Her finger hovered over _delete_ , then she touched _play_ instead.

“ _Claire_.”

Her hand flew to her mouth and she stopped the playback, trembling. Collecting herself, she carefully straightened her study material, then made her way up the stairs to her personal quarters, locking her door behind her and slipping in earbuds to listen to the message.

Claire broke down listening to LaCroix’s voice, her body shaking with tearless, silent sobs. He sounded absolutely awful, barely like himself. She played the voicemail again and again until she had it memorized, until she could feel his pain in the blood within her marrow. It calcified her rage into something else, something sharper, more determined. Deleting the message, she opened one of her windows and slipped out into the night.

 

* * *

 

The Nosferatu warrens were dark and slimy as they had been on her first visit, seemingly all the city’s detritus building up within it whether by accident or deliberate collection by its residents. At least she knew no Tremere had followed her down, even if she might have been spotted within Hollywood itself. If they were waiting above, by the time she left she’d have the information she needed. She hoped.

Claire was about to knock on Mitnick’s door when a purring growl from behind her stopped her. “Gary,” she said, sighing.

She turned to see the tall Nosferatu materialize from Obfuscate, an amused cackle revealing jagged teeth. “Plucked from the jaws of Camarilla justice a second time, and yet here you are, getting into trouble.”

“Some things never change.”

“Mm. Others do. Prince Priss has gotten his comeuppance - or is about to, I should say. Delicious. That courtroom scene reminded me of Worsley’s _Hunchback_ , but with a much uglier Lon Chaney.” Golden grinned. “No interruption from _this_ Esmeralda, though, hmm? I’d say you must be glad to be rid of him... but I’m not that stupid, boss.”

Claire tilted her head. “Are you going to call my dad?”

“The magnificent magician Maximillian?” He giggled. “The Prince is dead. Long live the Prince.”

“How nice and vague and Nosferatu. You owe me, you know.”

“Do I?” Golden put on a look of faux horror. “Barabus for the sarcophagus’ location. I’d say that makes us even steven, boss.”

“I didn’t kill all those Tzimisce craft projects for my health, Gary.”

“No? You might have. Who knows what you types get up to?”

She huffed in frustration. “I need to know where a call I received was placed from, or as near to it as possible. That’s why I’m here to see Mitnick. He’s your best hacker, and he owes me too for what I did for your network.”

“Don’t flatter him too much. He’s so easy to impress.” Golden tilted his head, his perpetual smile widening. “Whoever are we looking for, damsel-of-distress? A pretty Prince?”

“You know exactly what I’m doing.” The vitae whispered in her ear, but she pushed its influence away. “I’m not asking you to participate, just to let me be. Please. I don’t have much time.”

“Desperation suits you better than it suits your gentleman caller, boss,” he purred. “Have at Mitnick. I won’t be far.” Golden vanished back into Obfuscate with a rasping chuckle.

Claire rolled her eyes and went into Mitnick’s quarters.

The Nosferatu hacker, though distracted as always, only needed a few minutes to worm his way into the cell company’s records and to uncover what towers the call had pinged off of. “Looks like it came from downtown,” Mitnick mumbled, “convenient to the theater, yeah.”

“Do the Camarilla have some kind of... holding facility in the Nocturne Theatre itself?”

“Well, yeah, of course, but it’s not from there. It’s like...” More typing. “Mm. Near... Pershing Square Station. Roughly.”

“What’s over there that the Camarilla has anything to do with?”

“Everyone knows.” Claire turned and Golden was leaning in the doorway. Mitnick kept typing, unfazed. “Haven’t you seen _Blade Runner_? A little after my time, but today’s kids call it a classic. Even I remember the iron atrium.”

“What are you even talking about?” She was losing patience; she rubbed her temple. “Wasn’t it... it’s the Bradbury Building they used in the movie, right? That’s right in that area. Isn’t it full of kine offices, though?”

“So’s Venture Tower,” Mitnick pointed out.

“But do we have anything in the Bradbury? It’s so public. I wouldn’t think Sebastian would be kept there.”

Mitnick made a spluttering noise at _Sebastian_ that was either a cough or a laugh, or both.

Golden smiled wickedly. “ _We_? Are you sure you’re even really Camarilla anymore, boss?”

“Of course I am. Los Angeles’ Camarilla isn’t the entirety of the faction. Now, is there some kind of place there where he could be, or what?”

“There’s storage space under the building,” Mitnick said, “several floors down. Maintenance tunnels. Word is there’s a little holding facility down there, used by the Anarchs before the-”

“Thanks, Mitnick,” Claire said quickly. “Save the history for now.”

“Aw, no long goodbye?” the primogen purred. “Off to save the ex-Prince right away, hmm? Tell him hello for old Gary, if he’s not in an ashtray.”

“Goodbye, Gary,” she called over her shoulder as she slipped back into the darkness of the warrens, her hands clenched into fists.


	17. Chapter 17

It was the night of the trial, he thought. It was so hard to tell how much time had passed; he’d tried to mark it by feedings, but he’d gone what seemed like forever without one, and he wasn’t certain if he’d been forgotten entirely or if his perception of time had truly become so warped. He sat in the corner, knees curled to his chest, waiting, starving. Far down the hall he could smell kindred blood. One guard, approaching his cell, the tinge of chloroform and spun sugar indicating that it was a Malkavian. LaCroix stayed still as the slot at the bottom of the door slid open.

The cellphone he’d stolen went off.

He scrambled to grab it with what energy he had; it was only one of the Brujah’s contacts. How stupid he’d been to leave it on, desperate as he was for some contact from Claire. Of course no matter how quick he was, the damage had been done.

“Does the jester have a little bird in there, singing, ringing?” the Malkavian trilled. “Silly phonebird. This cage is for princes, not parakeets.” He ducked, peering through the door slot with the grin of the demented. “No playthings for you.” He scraped the edge of a long knife along the slot. “Give us the phonebird, jester, and we’ll give sweet nectar. Sweet and stale and pale.”

“No,” LaCroix croaked.

“No? No?” The Malkavian giggled. “No, no, no, no toys for wicked boys. Let the phonebird fly to us, yes?”

“I s-said no, lunatic,” he hissed powerlessly, the beast within him growling in building anger.

“Lunatic? Heh. Hehe.” The latched clacked as the guard unlocked the door and slowly stepped inside, a long knife glinting in his hand. In a stride that seemed far too long, he moved forward and crushed the phone under his foot. “Grout still whispers from the cracks, does the jester know? We know what you are. We have always known. Soul of coalest black.” The Malkavian’s wrist flicked and a stinging slice cut LaCroix’s cheek. “The scarlet harlot drinketh saints’ blood, her desolation wrought in flesh and flame. We will bury her in your ashes.”

LaCroix snapped. Vision subsumed in a blood-tinged rage, his beast took over with a roar. He grasped the Malkavian’s wrist and dislocated his arm from its socket, flinging the shrieking kindred to the floor. In seconds he was on top of the guard, fangs sinking into his throat in blind hunger.

It had been many, many years, but it was not the first time.

The kindred was weaker than he was, so there was no power to be gained but that of sustenance, the fire of kindred vitae surging through his senses until his starvation was dulled and the Malkavian fragmented to ashes beneath him. LaCroix inhaled and wiped the blood from his mouth, trembling with the overwhelming strength of it, lightning in his veins. Power. He felt almost like himself again. He stood slowly, straightening his dirty necktie. The door was open; he could hear and smell other kindred far up the hall, moving closer from the commotion they’d undoubtedly heard.

He waited.

Suddenly a scream echoed through the halls, distant but enough to make the approaching kindred seemingly turn around and head toward it. LaCroix cautiously peered out the partly open cell door. He had no idea where he was, never mind how to escape or if that was even a survivable course of action. He’d always been staked before being brought in and out. Carefully he started down the narrow corridor, listening. Somewhere above and ahead, he could hear gunshots and more screaming, the thick wet sound of blood hitting solid surfaces.

Blind hope spiked sharply in him and he made his way forward. Footfalls down the hallway.

“-have to kill him now,” a female voice was saying.

“Strauss will put us in urns!” said a male. “You know what-”

“We can’t let her free him!”

_Her_.

LaCroix waited in the dark for them to reach him. A sudden gunshot lit the hall for a split second, revealing three kindred ahead. They fired again and he locked eyes with one of them in a fraction of light, plunging into his mind sharp and brutal as razors. The kindred’s eyes rolled back and he fired the gun under his own chin, the fiery ash as he died dimly lighting the hall.

A sword stabbed viciously into his shoulder and LaCroix growled in pain, barely spinning himself in time to avoid the stake in a third kindred’s hands. He cloaked himself in gleaming blue Potence and forced his mind outward, and the kindred pounced on his fellow guard, staking her to the ground. LaCroix yanked the blade from his own body and swiped it at the third kindred, decapitating him in a flurry of flaming ash. He crouched over the staked female and bit hard into her neck, sweetest vitae running down his throat until his remaining hunger was satiated and her final death disintegrated her.

His body shook as he straightened, hope and anger and the power of kindred blood rushing through him. He’d needed blood, after all, and there were no kine on offer. Whatever it took to survive, to get to Claire. There was no time for any plan beyond that yet.

He ascended a ladder, eviscerating a confused-looking kindred at the top with one slash. Up another ladder and through some kind of back stairwell and he emerged at the edge of a chaotic scene.

Tiled floor was slicked red with spilled blood, seemingly endless black iron stairways extending upward in a huge atrium, rain hitting the skylight high above. Before him a group of a dozen kindred and many more kine fought with guns and blades, a single blood-cloaked figure at their center. She spun and struck with bullets and blood, one nearby kindred shrieking as his ribcage tore outward in a fatal gout of gore. She looked wounded.

“Claire!” LaCroix’s mind reached out, sinking into a Gangrel and forcing her body into war form, her claws slashing at her fellow kindred. Several turned their attention toward him and he drew up a golden aura of Presence, its edges tinged black, any kindred who drew too near to him finding themselves weakened with terror. Claire barely looked at him, every ounce of strength she had stretched to capacity as she tried to fight so many kindred. Her face was a cold mask of pure rage. They were not the most powerful, certainly, but nor were they the inexperienced shovelhead Sabbat she’d fought in groups before. It took all his willpower to concentrate on fighting, seeing her in such danger as she was. As they both were.

“We need to get out of here,” he managed, rolling out of the way of a grinning Brujah’s fire ax before stabbing his own blade up into the kindred’s skull. “There are too many.”

“I’m not done yet,” he heard her growl from across the room, burning gouts of blood shooting out from her body. She grasped a nearby kine and drained him, using his body like a shield against the others, taking another and another. She was utterly terrifying, one kindred near her gasping and vomiting blood until his face turned purple, another perishing from a final shot from her gun.

“Claire!” He grabbed one of the kine himself and drained her, grabbing her gun to shoot a few who tried to free her. A fire alarm started going off, its deafening siren echoing in the vast space. He could smell smoke. “ _Claire!_ ” Across the atrium, several kindred entered, flamethrowers in their hands.

She snarled and leaped upward, grabbing onto one of the railings and pulling herself up. LaCroix followed her, steering what kindred he could toward attacking the fire-wielding newcomers. “Claire,” he breathed, catching up to her, something in his chest so tight and heavy that it hurt.

She stumbled and flung her arms around his neck, kissing him roughly, and he clung to her so tightly he feared he might hurt her. She drew back, her eyes wide, her face streaked with blood and dirt. “I’ll kill them all,” she said. “I’ll kill them all for you, Sebastian.”

“Not if we die here tonight, my love.” He grabbed her hand and started running up the stairs, pulling her after him. They made it several flights up and Claire gasped suddenly. Below them, he could see a flash of red and pale skin.

Strauss.

“Come on!” LaCroix ordered. They ascended as fast as they could, the iron banisters stretching in an endless sharp labyrinth below as Strauss’ kindred pursued. At the top, Claire fired at the skylight until it shattered, glass shards and rain falling in glittering razors. They jumped up, clinging to the edge and slipping out onto the roof. Several running jumps later, they managed to find themselves in a filthy alleyway.

His mind and emotions were reeling. “What are we supposed to do? Strauss will announce a blood hunt immediately, and Christ knows every kindred on this coast is eager to see me in ashes.”

“I have a plan,” she said, still clinging to his hand.

“Plans and schemes got us into this, darling. Mine. I’m so...” He shook his head, struggling. “I’m so sorry, Claire.” He stroked her cheek. “Have they hurt you? This is... this is all my fault.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She laid her hand over his and kissed his palm. “None of it matters now. Just come with me.”

“And where will we go?”

“The last place he’d look for us.” Claire started off down the alley. “The _last_.”

 

* * *

  

LaCroix became progressively more confused the further they went. Down alleys, through sewer tunnels, and finally up into a tiny back lot that smelled of beer and urine, music thudding through the rear wall of the bar in front of them.

“What...?”

“It’s culture,” Claire said, hopping up onto a fire escape. “Just... stay right there for two seconds, okay?” She slipped through a partially opened window.

“...all right.” Frowning, LaCroix waited in the alley. In a moment he could hear angry yelling from inside, a female voice that wasn’t Claire’s; he could only catch snatches of it, most of which were rather colorful profanity. He raised an eyebrow, then walked around the side of the building and peered at its front facade. A worn sign proclaimed in lackluster letters: The Last Round.

Christ have mercy.

Quickly he returned to the back alley and climbed the fire escape, entering through the same window Claire had. He was surprised and disgusted to find himself in a bathroom stall, and exited into what was evidently the bar’s upper floor.

“-of my enemy is still my fucking enemy! There’s no-” Damsel stopped mid-rant when she spotted LaCroix.

“Good evening,” he said.

Her eyes went wide. “Are you fucking - you brought - piece of shit Cammy traitor fucking-” Damsel ended in an incoherent but clearly profane splutter, throwing up her hands in frustration.

Claire sighed. "Sebastian, this is Damsel."

"I'm sure."

Damsel frowned sharply. "Aren't you supposed to be in goddamn Alcatraz or something?"

"Aren't you supposed to be in school?" LaCroix returned.

" _You_ -"

Claire elbowed him. "Look, just ignore him, okay? We've gotten along fairly well so far, haven't we?"

"If you mean I haven't beat your ass yet, yeah, but we play for completely different teams.” She tossed her head. “And I don’t care what excuses you make. It’s _your_ fault Nines is dead.”

“Nines was killed by a werewolf; I nearly was, too.”

“Yeah but _somebody_ set that fire.”

“Damsel, nobody listens to Smokey anymore. Fires happen all the time.”

The Anarch stomped her foot. In other, less desperate circumstances, her behavior might have been almost entertaining. What precisely was Claire playing at? “Skelter!” Damsel shouted down a staircase. “Get up here.”

A moment later a heavily muscled Brujah came up the stairs, his expression changing from annoyance to shock before settling on anger. Did the Anarchs even know much else, brutes as they were? “Are you fucking kidding me?” he demanded, hands clenching into large fists. “How the fuck did you get out and what do you think you’re-”

“Yes, yes, I know.” LaCroix waved his hand dismissively. “Rest assured I’m as uncomfortable and confused as you are.”

“Look,” said Claire, “the point is, we have a common enemy in the Kuei-jin and another in Strauss, with Strauss being the more pressing of the two right now.”

Skelter snorted. “Why, because he’s probably already called a blood hunt on both your asses, and the Eastern devils were your damned pals? Not our problem. In fact, I’ll drag you out there myself.”

“Hard to argue against a blood witch when you’re one too, Cammy,” Damsel added.

“We all know that I’m pro-Camarilla, but that doesn’t mean that I want to destroy you, nor does my clan.” Claire shook her head. “But Strauss himself thinks you’re less than kindred, less than kine. He was convinced that your people were behind the plague, with your ‘filthy behavior,’ that your very existence is a threat. That’s a little more extreme than wanting you to obey Camarilla laws.” She pointed her finger at Damsel. “But I helped you with that plague, didn’t I? I protected the kine of this city and I told Strauss the truth, even though I could’ve lied to harm you.”

Damsel folded her arms. “So you’re not complete trash. You want a goddamn medal?”

“I also helped you,” she pointed to Skelter, “with that ghoul situation, _pro bono_. Did I not?”

“Sure, so you could make your sorry Cammy ass look good.”

“I fed her to a Nagaraja for you. That hardly makes me look good.”

LaCroix’s eyebrows raised. “I’m sorry, a what now? In Los Angeles?”

She huffed. “It really doesn’t matter right now, Sebastian.”

“ _Sebastian_. Jesus.” Damsel gagged. “It’s true, isn’t it? Fuck, ew. When I made the comment about laying it down for a cape I didn’t mean literally, like... you fucked him, didn’t you, Cammy? _Him_?”

Claire shrugged. “The past tense is a little inaccurate.”

LaCroix nearly hit the ceiling. “Claire, _for Christ’s sake_.”

Skelter started laughing, his fists loosening. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Prince Priss. Knew she was your bitch but _damn_.”

“Gonna go eat something so I can vomit,” Damsel muttered.

“Anyway.” Claire’s cheeks were flushed, something that always charmed him. “I did quite a bit of work for Isaac in Hollywood, especially against the gargoyle. I think it’s pretty clear who that creature once belonged to - Strauss even confessed it to me himself.”

Skelter waved his hand. “Okay, we get it, sister. You’re a regular humanitarian. But you’re in no position now to ask us for a single goddamn thing.”

“Actually, I am.”

Damsel’s nostrils flared. “No you f-”

“I’m asking only that you help us get to Hollywood and meet with Isaac. He can do what he likes from there, as can you. That’s all. Secure transport to his barony.” Claire squared her shoulders. “You both know what I’ve done, the blood I’ve shed. I’ll fight my way there if I have to but I’d rather do this with your cooperation.”

The two Anarchs looked at each other. After a moment, Skelter turned back to them. “Jack knows a guy.”

Damsel stared at him. “You’re not seriously-”

“Damsel, come on. It gets them out of our hair. Isaac will deal with them.”

“Isaac’s not in charge!”

“Do _you_ want to fight her?” Skelter jabbed his thumb at Claire. “Because I fucking don’t.”

LaCroix sniffed. “I am fairly certain your friend wants to fight everyone she encounters.”

“Nah, only entitled assholes like you.”

“You don’t have to like us,” Claire said. “Neither of you do. Just let us meet with Isaac, for the city’s sake.”

Muttering something under her breath, Damsel folded her arms. “Fine. Whatever. This is _your_ idea, Skelter.”

“Whatever you say, tart and tiny,” he replied. “I’ll make a call. You two morons sit tight.”

Skelter left, followed by a still-muttering Damsel.

LaCroix turned to Claire, brow furrowed. “This isn’t going to work. There is no way to ascend again; certainly not on the backs of the Anarchs, of all things.”

She smiled, though she looked exhausted. “Tell me that wicked Ventrue heart of yours doesn’t want to try. Besides, at worst it buys us time and gets us out of downtown. That’s not a bad start.”

He sighed. “I suppose.”

“It’s out best option right now, Sebastian. Trust me.” She caressed his cheek. “I’ve missed you so much,” she said after a moment, her voice thick.

Something in him twisted. “And I you, _ma bien-aimée_. My unstoppable angel.” He leaned down and kissed her, not caring if anyone returned and saw his sin. Damn them all, damn every single one of them to ash and sunlight. He was free, for now, and he had her. They’d drown Los Angeles in blood if they had to.


	18. Chapter 18

LaCroix opened the door of the old cab for her and Claire slid into its backseat, sinking into the worn leather, exhausted physically and mentally. He slipped in beside her and shut the door, tapping on the back of the driver’s seat.

“Hollywood, please,” he said. “Straight to Abrams’ little hovel, if you will.”

“Of course, Mr. LaCroix,” said the driver, his voice deep and vaguely accented.

The cab sped off and Claire sighed as LaCroix took her hand and gently kissed the back of it. He looked a mess, but she supposed it was no worse than herself, torn and bloodstained as she was. They both looked like they’d escaped a war zone. Not _escaped_ , not quite yet.

After several minutes of quiet, the radio program The Deb of Night playing softly in the background, the driver glanced back at them in the rearview mirror - or seemed to, as his dark sunglasses made seeing his eyes impossible. “The Anarchs as salvation for the Camarilla’s fallen prince,” he mused. “Is the intent to use them, good Ventrue, or to at last form a true alliance for the sake of all kindred?”

Claire glanced at LaCroix, who was frowning. “I’m sorry?” he said.

“The leaderless will do much to regain a sense of direction, but can they find it beneath an iron fist? The city is at the edge of something. It teeters now.”

“And you are...?”

The faintest smile curved the cabby’s lips. “I am merely a driver. I take people where they want to go. The question is, where exactly is that?”

LaCroix looked annoyed. “Does the undergraduate philosophizing cost extra? I fear my wallet has been confiscated.”

The cabby chuckled and said nothing for a moment. Claire frowned, flicking her Auspex toward him at a low level. He was kindred, clearly, but she could not tell of what clan. She could not smell his blood, either, just the slightly musty scent of the inside of a taxi cab. That realization made her suddenly nervous and confused.

“What about you, Ms. Farington?” the driver asked. “You had more roads open to you than most fledglings, yet here you are. Do you not feel your clan’s blood within you, drawing you back to them?”

She did, of course, but it was only a whisper in the back of her mind and could be overcome. “I am stronger than the Transubstantiation, but it’s not my clan I oppose.”

“Only its Regent, and new Prince of this city.”

Claire shook her head. “Strauss means well, or at least thinks he does, but he’s wrong. Misguided. Besides, his intentions are irrelevant. He deposed and meant to kill the most important person in my world. He won’t survive that.”

LaCroix squeezed her hand. “In addition to his political machinations, he tried to enslave your consciousness through ritual. That cannot be forgiven. And no kindred is altruistic. We’re not fooled.”

“No?” The cabby smiled, letting the remark hang.

Claire shifted in her seat. “Who are you? Answer the question, please.”

The cab pulled up to the curb beside the jewelry shop in Hollywood. “I already have. Farewell, kindred.”

LaCroix and Claire glanced at each other and got out, staring as the cab drove away. Claire shrugged. “I just don’t even know anymore.”

“Quite.” They took a step toward the jewelry shop and were greeted by a pair of burly-looking, obviously Brujah kindred.

“Isaac knows you’re here,” one said, arms folded. “He’s called a meeting in the Chinese Theatre at midnight tomorrow night.”

“What do you mean, tomorrow night?” LaCroix spat. “This cannot wait.”

“It’s gonna have to,” the other said, eyes narrowed under the brim of her baseball cap. “Issac’s in charge, here. You two are nothing anymore. You’ll do what he says.”

LaCroix huffed in frustration. “And what are we supposed to do? Sit out here and wait for the inevitable blood hunt to eviscerate us in your lovely Anarch streets?”

“If you like,” the female Brujah said.

“But Isaac’s arranged quarters for you at the Lucky Star,” the other continued. “You’re the Baron’s guests, for now. After the meeting we’ll see if he turns you out for the dogs.”

“Thank you,” Claire said.

“You’re welcome, Farington.” The Brujah nodded. “It’s for your sake, anyway. Isaac doesn’t care if LaCroix rots in the street.”

“Charming.” LaCroix sighed. “Fine. Tell your Baron we’ll meet him then.”

The female Brujah grinned. “Don’t be late.”

 

* * *

 

The motel room was small and threadbare, although Abrams’ people had evidently placed blood packs and a change of clothes for each of them in the room. Claire laid on her stomach on the bed in the oversized band t-shirt and jeans they’d left for her, flipping through her phone as LaCroix got cleaned up in the other room. Strauss had declared a blood hunt on the Anarch named Jack, a kindred she’d met only briefly after her sire’s execution. Apparently this Jack was the one who’d filled the Ankaran Sarcophagus with explosives - according to Strauss, anyway. What he’d done with whatever or whoever the sarcophagus had contained wasn’t mentioned. And, more oddly, Strauss made no mention of her or LaCroix.

She pulled up her email and among various spam messages, there was one that was unexpected.

 

 

> _From: Velvet Velour_  
>  _Subject: A mutual concern_
> 
> Claire,
> 
> I do hope this message reaches your sight, in the midst of all you must be facing now. I know that our interactions were perhaps not to your taste, ascetic as you are, but I do respect and thank you for your help with the unfortunate and delicate matters of the hunter and the screenplay. You have always been discreet and cordial. That is why I am asking now for you to find a small moment to meet with me - or, if you cannot, to at least reply to this message. I am worried what may happen, both to yourself and especially to a person I care about very much. I still hope that there may be a peaceful end to all of this. I can’t bear for any more blood to be shed in our city. Please, if you are able, reply to me.
> 
> Velvet

  
  
Claire frowned. What did Velour mean?

LaCroix emerged from the tiny bathroom in dark trousers and a plain white tee, shaking his head.

“What?” She kicked her feet idly, setting her phone aside.

“It’s been a very, very long time since I’ve been in a place like this,” he said, looking slightly disturbed. “I think ‘luxury’ and even ‘hygiene’ may be illegal here.”

Claire laughed. “Well, we’re lawbreakers, so it fits.”

LaCroix snorted. “Of course you find amusement in this.”

“It’s the only way to stay sane.”

“Perhaps for you.” He rolled her over onto her back and raised an eyebrow as he looked at her shirt. “What’s a Lacuna Coil?”

“It’s a band, old man.” She pulled him down toward her, running her hands through his still-damp hair. “Be glad they didn’t give me one of those ‘I’m with stupid’ shirts.”

“ _Petite fille insolente_ ,” he grumbled without malice, kissing her deeply. He smelled of cheap soap and the rich darkness of his blood beneath. After a moment he drew back and laid beside her with a sigh, trailing his fingers through her hair. “So Regent Prince Emperor whatever has called his first blood hunt, hmm?”

“Yeah.”

“But not on us.”

“Not yet.” She exhaled and curled against him. It was such a comfort, such a relief just to be beside him after all that had happened, and nearly happened. “Maybe he wants to recapture you so he can continue his whole public execution thing. And I’m pretty sure Strauss still thinks he can find a way to control me.”

“He could, if he forcibly blood bound you.” LaCroix held her tightly. “Vitae is more powerful than anything, whether we like it or not.”

“Even more powerful than love?”

He hesitated, then shifted so he could meet her eyes. “It is our curse, _ma bien-aimée_.” His voice was gentle. “I know we are in the land of Toreadors at the moment but we cannot afford such naivete.”

“I know.” She sighed. She did understand, of course, but the dark cynicism of their reality as kindred weighed on her. They were quiet for a few minutes, her eyes closed, her arm across his chest. “Speaking of Toreadors,” she said finally, “I got kind of a strange email from Velvet Velour in town. She wants to meet. Well, with me specifically, but she didn’t say anything about you one way or the other. Something about a person she cares about.”

“Since she’s a Toreador, that’s probably half the city.”

“But why email me now? She knows what’s going on. It must be relevant, right?”

LaCroix thought for a moment. “Strauss.” He started laughing. “Oh, Strauss. How the skeletons start climbing out of your closet.”

Claire frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The Nosferatu told me of a rumor at one point, that Strauss was perhaps in private communication with the young Toreador. I hardly cared at the time and still don’t, but... if she perhaps has information that may be of use to us...”

Her eyebrows raised. “Wait, wait, Strauss and Velour...? _Strauss_? After all his condemnation for us?”

“I wouldn’t necessarily believe that they have gone as far as you and I, but supposedly there is something personal there. It could be useful.”

Claire sighed. “Back into the tangled web we go.”

LaCroix sniffed and got up. “You want to destroy Strauss, don’t you?”

“Obviously.”

“Then we ought to use whatever we can. Survival, my love. Nothing else can factor into it.” He smoothed his shirt. “Write to her. Tell her we’re on our way. Or you are. I can be a surprise.”

“I... okay.” Claire sat up and typed a quick reply, then got up and headed for the door. “Let’s go do this, then.”

 

* * *

 

Velvet Velour was waiting for them on a dimly lit back patio behind her club, her skimpy attire hidden beneath a white fur coat. Her expression turned openly fearful as she saw LaCroix behind Claire.

“I wasn’t expecting two guests.” Her warm voice was strained. “I only want to talk.”

“It’s fine, Velvet,” Claire said. “Sebastian’s with me. We act together.”

“Miss.” LaCroix nodded curtly.

Velour looked between the two of them, then sighed. “All right,” she said, glancing down the alley past them. “We’re about as safe as we can be, these nights. My club is a little too public.”

Claire shrugged. “I just assume I’m always being watched. Too much time around the Nosferatu has convinced me of that.”

“Please.” Her smooth white brow creased. “I’d rather not think of them.” Velour paused, seemingly gathering herself. “I’m afraid what I have to say may fall on deaf ears, but I have to say it anyway. There’s no choice left to me now. It’s...” She swallowed hard. “It’s Maximillian. He and I are... friendly. More than friendly. He’s a good man, Claire, and far kinder than anyone knows. He only wants what’s best for all of us.”

Claire shook her head. “I understand that you think that, but see things from my perspective. He staked me and forced me to undergo a Tremere blood ritual to try to bind my will to the clan’s, and his. He deposed, publicly humiliated, and intended to execute Sebastian. Are you asking me to ignore those things?”

“No, I...” Velour wrung her hands. “You don’t understand. I’m... please just don’t hurt him. There’s no ill will in anything he’s done.”

“Because Toreadors are known for their honesty and skill at judging others’ character,” LaCroix muttered.

Velour looked shocked. “ _You_ have been nothing but a villain to this city. Have you gone so far that you’ve lost all grasp of right and wrong? Do you think I can’t see the black threads in your aura, LaCroix?” She shook her head. “Was the Amaranth worth your soul?”

LaCroix’s eyes narrowed. “A kindred starved to the point of frenzy will do whatever it takes to survive. If you wish to cast blame, place it upon your shining scarlet knight. A Tremere, the clan whose great leap to power was fueled by diablerie. No one who can reach the status of Prince is innocent, madame, no matter what he may tell you.”

Claire wasn’t truly surprised that the shadow of diablerie had asserted itself once more. She could not blame LaCroix for what he’d done, certainly not for actions taken in frenzy. The Beast was cruel and all-consuming, after all.

“I don’t believe in innocence,” Velour said, “but your heart is nothing but black ice. You’d destroy anyone in your way, even her.”

“Do _not_ speak of Claire and myself,” LaCroix growled.

“How is that any different than-”

Claire raised her hands. “That’s enough. Just stop, okay? Velvet, you...” The Toreador’s expression had turned blank, her silvery eyes dully serene as she stared straight ahead at LaCroix. “Is dominating her really necessary, Sebastian?”

“We don’t have time for anything else,” LaCroix snapped. “Velvet,” he continued, turning back to her, “tell us anything you know of what Strauss is planning.”

“I know little,” Velour said in a monotone. “I told him you were here in Hollywood. He already knew. He is waiting before he takes action.”

“Waiting for what?” LaCroix pressed.

“He did not tell me directly. I think Maximillian hopes the Anarchs will kill you outright, and that he can use their refusal to respect Camarilla justice as further justification to crush them.” Her soft voice did not waver, her blank look turning almost content, as if the blind forced obedience being placed on her was perfectly willing and natural. It was frightening but also impressive to see such effortless control on LaCroix’s part. “If he can direct this punishment onto Isaac Abrams himself, that will be a third strong force within the Anarchs gone. They will be much easier to control.”

LaCroix nodded thoughtfully, then frowned. “What does he intend to do with Claire?”

“He hopes to blood bind her. Her power is too useful to spill over politics.”

Claire suppressed a shiver. The thought of such a fate horrified her. “Does he forget I’d die fighting first?”

Velvet looked confused and said nothing. Claire wasn’t the one in her head, after all.

“Go back to your night, Velvet,” said LaCroix. “We have not spoken. Do you understand?”

“We haven’t spoken.”

“Do not answer Strauss. Do not contact him. Ignore him, no matter what he does. Do you understand, Velvet?”

“I will not respond to him.”

“And stay away from the meeting tomorrow. Stay as far away from all of this as you can. It is the best thing for you. Do you understand?”

“I need to stay away from everything. I will be safer.”

LaCroix waved his hand dismissively. “Good evening, Miss Velour.”

Velour nodded, her expression cloudy. “Good evening.”

 

* * *

 

They did not speak on the walk back to the motel. Claire was troubled by all of it, particularly by the thought of forcing Velour to essentially betray Strauss. Not because Claire cared about them, but because of the implication such a thing had for herself. Strauss had used Dominate on her at Venture Tower, to stop her from opening the sarcophagus - something none of them knew at the time had saved all of their lives. Would she be able to resist if he tried to force her to help him? Her will was strong, but if he did succeed in blood binding her to him, she would be unable to stop herself from doing whatever he wanted. The thought sickened her.

LaCroix seemed equally disturbed, his hands clenched, darkness in his eyes. When they got back to their room he was restless, like he could not decide what to do with himself.

“Thank you for telling Velvet to stay away,” Claire said. “She’s annoyed me in the past, but she’s a well-meaning person. She doesn’t deserve to die for her poor taste in men.”

LaCroix snorted. “That has been said many times about you.”

“Is that why you were merciful?”

“There’s nothing merciful about what has just occurred, Claire. Depriving Strauss of her will make him less rational, less controlled. That’s when men become fools. Like when I came for you in Chinatown, even though you didn’t need me, or when I used up blood I needed to dominate a guard and steal his mobile phone, so I could try to call you.”

Her brow creased. “I always need you.”

LaCroix shook his head. “Not as much as I need you,” he said quietly. “Surely you’ve learned that by now.”

“Sebastian.” She reached up and cradled his face in her hands. “If you’re going to give me the whole cliched ‘you’d be better off without me’ speech, don’t. I don’t care whether that’s true or not. I don’t want to be without you. Didn’t what I did at the Bradbury show that?”

He swallowed hard and nodded wordlessly.

“ _Je t'aime quoi qu'il arrive._ Those aren’t words just for when things are good. I meant it.” She stroked his cheeks. It hurt to see the look in his eyes, the self-doubt. “I _mean_ it, Sebastian.”

“I know. I...” He took a ragged breath. “Understand that it is... hard for me to believe, in my heart. That is my failing, not yours. You are perfect, my sweet angel.” One corner of his mouth curved in a faint wry smile. “It makes me wonder sometimes if you are real. Or perhaps you are secretly a Malkavian madwoman. That would explain a lot.”

She laughed. “‘There is always some madness in love,’” she quoted.

His expression softened. “Oh, I get Nietzsche, now? Philosophy from everyone tonight. _Comme c’est romantique_. But the Germans should not be your source for such things.” He leaned down and gently kissed her, slipping his arms around her. “ _Seulement le français_.”

“Only the French?” She smiled, kissing along his jawline, her blood singing. She’d missed him so much. “One in particular, I assume?”

“ _Tu es un bon étudiant_.” LaCroix picked her up easily and laid her down on the bed.

“The _best_ student, please.”

“ _Cela reste à voir_.” He pulled off her shirt, kissing her neck and collarbone.

“That... what is that, ‘remains to be seen?’” Claire laughed. “Really? You’re difficult to please, _monsieur_.”

He nearly purred against her skin. “ _Pas si, ma petite fille_. Not so.” He hesitated, his brow creasing. “There is... something I have been considering for a long time. I am not certain if you... or if I, even, would...”

“What is it, Sebastian?”

Sighing, he sat up. “I have heard it said that some kindred who find themselves in our situation will engage in a... well, a blood bond. If...” He traced a finger along her cheek, down her neck to her collarbone. “And the only way to prevent a kindred from blood binding another is if that intended target is already blood bound to someone else.”

“You want to blood bind me to you?” Her brow creased. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about the idea.

“No, not just that. A mutual bond.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Or the start of one. It takes three draughts in fairly close time proximity to create a full bond. Tonight would only be the first, if we...” LaCroix cleared his throat. “It... frightens me, to be honest. It is... vulnerable. But I cannot let him take you, Claire. I will not. And I also won’t make it one-sided. I do not want to do that to you.”

She pulled herself up into a sitting position. “What would happen to us?”

“In my understanding, if there is already mutual emotion present, it intensifies everything and strengthens the connection. Such a thing was more commonly done in years past, evidently.”

Claire thought for a moment, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She knew he was correct about the protective factor of such a bond, but the entire thing made her nervous. He’d just drained at least one kindred to death in frenzy, after all; in entirely different circumstances, but still. Yet she trusted him, her adoration the strongest thing in her life. Their fates were joined together, now. Why not their blood? “Okay. I want to do it.”

A strange shadow passed over LaCroix’s face, a soft noise catching in his throat. He kissed her deeply, fingers twining in her hair. “Shall I go first, or would you rather?” he breathed. “I do not want you to be afraid, _ma bien-aimée_.”

“You go first.” She tilted her head, baring the smooth white skin of her neck for him. “ _Je t’aime_ ,” she whispered, “ _et je n'ai pas peur_.”

_I love you, and I am not afraid._

He leaned in, inhaling the scent of her skin. “Here is something for you, my love, from one of our poets.” He kissed her neck, gently at first then growing more fierce, his fingertips pressing into the back of her neck. “' _En sa beauté gît ma mort et ma vie_.’”

She struggled to translate it, heavily distracted as she was, blood rushing through her as her beast moaned within her. “’My death and..?’”

“'In her beauty,’” he murmured, one fang nicking her skin, “’resides my death and my life.’”

Her eyes closed; she was entirely in his control. It felt almost liberating. “Sebastian...”

He bit down, hard, and her breath caught as she felt him drink, the sensation of it surging through her in a pleasure high as anything she’d experienced with him. His body trembled against her, his grip tight enough to bruise even a kindred. Her consciousness fluttered, her beast screaming in a mix of perverse excitement and terror, but he pulled back after a moment. His pupils were blown, his face flushed, her blood on his lips.

“Claire,” he murmured, “Claire... _mon ange... ma bien-aimée... je ne peux pas..._ ” He slipped off his shirt with shaking hands and slid his arms around her again, tilting his head. Anticipation reared sharply in her. “ _Fais le, mon amour. J’ai confiance et_... I... trust you. Do it, my love.”

She leaned forward, kissing him as he had kissed her, his pale skin flushing beneath her lips. The scent, the presence of him overwhelmed her, her tongue gliding over an artery as he shivered.

She took a breath and bit down.

Immediately her senses were flooded with a heady richness, the taste of red wine and blackest iron, power and fear and passion electrifying every dead nerve until she could no longer think at all. Vitae burned through her, the weaker whispers of her Tremere elders drowned by the all-consuming, devouring flame of him. She barely noticed when she stopped drinking, the transition from his blood to his kiss, his body and blood within her. It was ecstatic, near religious, the world without becoming a featureless, meaningless nothing, nothing that could stop her, nothing that mattered but _them_.


	19. Chapter 19

Calais, home, sunlight on fresh grass and the soft salty air of the sea. He is a young man, as unsullied by life as he’s ever been, heading toward the ocean. Impossibly Claire walks beside him, her hand in his, her austere features lit by the sun and a bright smile.

“ _Nous devrions rester ici pour toujours_ ,” she says. _We should stay here forever._ “ _Qu’est-ce que le pouvoir_ , Sebastian?”

_What is power?_

“ _C’est la survie_ ,” he replies. “ _C'est la première leçon.” It is survival. That is the first lesson._

“ _Je ne veux pas survivre._ ” She shakes her head. _I do not want to survive. “Je veux vivre.” I want to live._ She stops and frames his face with her hands. “ _S'il te plaît, mon amour.”_

_Please, my love._

The sun is setting, its pale rays reddening as they sink lower. “ _Je t’aime, Claire.” I love you._ He kisses her, tastes the salt air on her tongue. “ _C'est tout ce que je veux... mais... pas tout ce dont j'ai besoin.” It is all I want, but not all I need._

She pulls back and nods. “ _Alors nous allons mourir_ ,” she says, the sun’s final scarlet fingers painting the lines of her face.

_Then we will die._

 

 

 

LaCroix’s eyes blinked open. The motel room was quiet, dim orange light filtering in from the street outside. He could still taste her, his body filled with a dull but not unpleasant ache from what they’d done, though the fear of his dream weighed heavily on him. He rolled over to see Claire curled beside him, seemingly still in the sleep of the day, her expression peaceful. It was strange. He’d never spent daylight’s slumber with anyone else. His brow creased as he stroked her hair.

He loved her, truly, as much as he was capable of love or of understanding it. The first drink of her blood had solidified that feeling into an almost frightening certainly. He could not be without her, not anymore. It was stupid, really, to have made such a choice to enter into a bond. His Ventrue self-preservation had warred within him, the benefit of keeping her fighting with the danger of linking himself with her. His need and curiosity, foolish or selfish or whatever they were, had won out. He could not bear the thought of her being subjugated by Strauss or anyone. She was his, his alone, as he had become hers.

The faintest curve of her lips hinted at a smile, though she did not open her eyes.

“You’re awake, aren’t you, you tricky thing,” he murmured.

“Maybe,” Claire mumbled, curling closer to him. She stretched a little and opened her eyes, sighing contentedly. “Hi.”

He smiled. “Hello.” Gently he ran the back of his hand along her cheek. “How do you feel? Are you... all right?”

“Yeah. I feel... good. A little... I don’t know. A little different, in a good way, but... good.” She laughed. “Sorry, not feeling very articulate at the moment. You’re good, I’m good, everything’s good. That’s tonight’s word. _C’est bon_. That’s as much French as I have for you right now.” She traced circles across his chest with her fingertip. “What about you?”

LaCroix chuckled and lightly kissed her. “I understand what you mean. I feel... heavier, in a way?”

“Oh god, I hope not. You might crush me.”

He laughed. “Not like that, _fille insolente_.” He leaned over and kissed her again, smiling against her lips. They were silent for some time, at peace in one another’s company.

Eventually Claire sighed. “So, what is our plan for tonight?”

“With the Anarchs? This whole thing was your idea, my love, lest you’ve forgotten. That’s a question I ought to be asking you.”

“Hey, my main plan was just to get you out of vampire jail and then get us out of downtown. The politics is your game.”

LaCroix snorted. “Barely. My record has taken quite the downturn.”

She shrugged. “That’s because you were too focused on the sarcophagus to see the threat Strauss posed. To be fair, I didn’t entirely realize how far he’d go, either, but still.”

“Yes, dear, I am aware of my failings.” He ruffled her hair. “Every mistake I survive is one I will not make again.”

Grinning, she made a soft growling noise and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I don’t think human nature works that way.”

“Then it is fortunate that we’re no longer human.” He stretched and held her closer to him, pressing his lips to her forehead. “In all seriousness, though, I think the key will be to allow you to take the lead, or at least to allow things to seem that way as much as possible. They more or less hate me.”

“That’s because they’re cretins with poor taste.”

He laughed. “Clearly. But I think the main trick will be keeping the more agitated elements under control. This is not an ambush. If the Anarchs wanted us dead, they would have attacked us outright. That doesn’t mean they could not become unruly at such a gathering, though.” He frowned. “We’re in a difficult position. We’ve no ground to negotiate from - we’re essentially outlaws from the city’s Camarilla government, at the moment, although even that can be twisted to our advantage. They don’t need to be convinced of the Camarilla’s rightness, only of how Strauss is worse than their former situation.”

“Than _you_ , you mean.” She sniffed. “I think I can manage. Hopefully.”

“And, if for some reason everything goes severely downhill, we leave.” He gently poked her arm. “No last stands fighting dozens of kindred. Survival is more important than pride, as much as that hurts me to say.”

Her expression turned serious, darkness in her clear golden eyes. “And where will we go?”

“I don’t know. But I have fled entire continents before, and I am still here. We’ll endure.” He caressed her back. “These people, they’re nothing, Claire. Nothing. We will outlive them, one way or another.”

She half sat up and leaned down over him, dark hair falling past her bare shoulder. Her brow creased as she stroked his forehead and cheek.

“What is it, _ma bien-aimée_?” He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Do not be frightened.”

“The only thing I’m afraid of is something happening to you,” she murmured. “I’ve already failed you once, at Venture Tower. Next time it could cost your life.”

Something twisted inside him. “Oh, Claire.” He sat up and reached for her. “Come here.”

She slid her arms around him, her head on his shoulder, and he embraced her tightly.

“You’ve never failed me, my sweet angel.” Her body felt almost fragile as he held her.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered. “Please, Sebastian.”

“Never, my love, never,” he murmured against her hair. He could still feel her blood within him, melded with his, and as he kissed her he could almost taste his own blood in her. “ _Never_.” 

 

* * *

 

The Chinese Theatre was in poor repair, moonlight streaming in through the fractured skylight above, its seats worn, its carpet threadbare. Far too many Anarchs filled its seats, whispering to each other as he and Claire walked down the theater’s aisle toward the stage, where Isaac Abrams was already waiting. LaCroix held his head high, his shoulders back. None of this rabble mattered to him beyond what he could use them to accomplish. It was cold, but certainly they thought equally as poorly of him. He paused at the staircase to the stage, nodding to Abrams, who gestured sharply for them to come up. They did, Claire in front, LaCroix beside and a short step behind her.

“This is my show,” Abrams said to them, too quietly for the crowd to hear. “Understand?”

“Of course,” Claire said, but Abrams waved his hand.

“I’m reminding LaCroix here.” The Toreador’s eyes narrowed. “You were no Prince before, and you’re literally not one now. This is extreme generosity on my part.”

“I understand.” LaCroix gritted his teeth; to be fair, it was seemingly generous of Abrams to grant them this. “I thank you for allowing us this audience, and accommodations as well.”

Abrams sniffed. “They’re for Claire. You’re an unfortunate side effect.” He smiled joylessly. “Let’s begin, then, hmm?” He took a step forward to address the crowd. “You all know why we’re here,” he said. “This is an open forum, but I’ll not have chaos. Raised hands for questions only, through me. Let’s keep the heckling to a minimum, as well. Clear?”

The crowd murmured, but nodded.

“Good. Now, you all know Sebastian LaCroix, former Camarilla Prince, deposed and meant to be executed by Maximillian Strauss of Clan Tremere.”

LaCroix bowed his head slightly. The crowd muttered, a few jeers quieted in surprisingly uniform obedience to Abrams. Interesting.

“And most of you have met or certainly heard of Claire Farington, also of Clan Tremere, of no title but much fame in our city.”

Claire waved; he noticed a few smiles in the audience. Good.

“As fugitives from Prince Strauss, these two have sought refuge and help from our people. I have, with great kindness and generosity, chosen to give them an opportunity to speak to you. Let no one say that we suppress or cannot handle viewpoints contrary to our own. We are kindred of a Free State.” Abrams took a step back, gesturing to the two of them.

Claire stepped forward. “Thank you all again, and especially Baron Abrams, for helping Sebastian and I these nights. I know this is all very strange, and that many of you would be more than happy to see my companion burn.” Murmurs in the crowd. “There’s no point in my sugar-coating or avoiding that. But the truth is, his failings, and my own in his service, are nothing in comparison to the oppression that is coming for all of you under Maximillian Strauss.” She paused for a moment, letting her words hang. The theater grew very quiet.

“Let there be no mistake,” she continued. “We are and shall continue to be Camarilla. However, our understanding of the Camarilla has room to negotiate and work with Anarchs, as was shown by my personal attempt to negotiate an alliance against the Kuei-jin with Nines Rodriguez.”

“You killed him!” someone in the crowd shouted, following by muttering.

“An original sentiment, surely worthy of yelling in interruption, against my specific orders,” said Abrams, silencing the group. “Raised hands, and I’ll point to you to speak. Have some sense of decorum.”

A vampire in the crowd raised her hand. “Then who lit the fire?”

“I don’t know,” Claire replied. “I nearly lost my own life escaping. Nines was braver than me, and sadly that cost his life.”

Another raised his hand. “If you admire him so much, why not join us? You don’t need that cape dragging you down.” Several murmurs that sounded assenting.

Claire shook her head. “Sebastian and I are a team; that’s non-negotiable. I’m sorry if you don’t like that, but that’s the way it is. Like most political, the reality of what he’s really like is different than what you may believe, or have been told.”

“Is he mute?” a kindred asked. “Not that I’m complaining.” Laughter in one section of the audience.

“Unfortunately, no,” LaCroix said, with a faint self-deprecating smile. That would be the only way forward. “But I have learned a great deal over these nights, both through experience and from Ms. Farington. I do not believe myself to be infallible, as much as my Ventrue blood rails at that realization. I’m sure you all can appreciate my acquainting myself with that reality.” A few chuckles in the crowd.

A raised hand. “Okay, so, the hell is the deal? You two fucking, or what?” Laughter. Abrams looked moderately scandalized.

Claire cleared her throat. “I want to make something very clear, okay? I want it to be known that what kindred do in their own time is their business. Our kind has more important things to worry about, like Masquerade violations, human encroachment, and the possible impending Kuei-jin invasion. My Camarilla doesn’t care about private behavior that hurts no one.”

Assenting murmurs in the audience.

“However, ‘Prince’ Strauss’ Camarilla does,” she went on. “Regardless of his own personal, so-called sins, he hypocritically condemns the Anarchs for human-like behavior, for what he perceives as filth. He has already called a blood hunt on Jack for supposedly trying to kill Sebastian and myself with explosives in the Ankaran Sarcophagus. Why would Strauss care about that, when he arrested and intended to execute Sebastian, and tried to enslave me through blood?” She shook her head. “No. Regardless of what Jack did or didn’t do, Strauss is using this as an excuse to turn the kindred community loose against one of your oldest and most experienced members. He means to cripple and destroy you.”

One vampire raised his hand, then shrugged and dropped it again.

“What we want,” Claire continued, “what we hope for, is that you will assist us in removing Strauss from power, for your own sake’s.”

Several hands shot up; Abrams pointed to the kindred nearest the front. Damsel, LaCroix recognized. “And then what, Cammy? We put your boyfriend back on the throne of Los Angeles and go back to our second-class citizen status? Fuck that.” Skelter, next to her, whispered something in her ear. “I said, _fuck_ that,” she repeated, many kindred in the audience evidently agreeing with her.

“That is not our intent,” LaCroix said. “I have seen quite clearly that the only way for us all to live at peace in this city is working together. Camarilla and Anarch must be united, despite our different viewpoints, Kuei-jin threat or no.” He took a breath. “All of Los Angeles cannot be all Anarch or all Camarilla. The lines should remain more or less where they are, with an Anarch representative on the council of Primogen. Baron Abrams, should you choose, or another upstanding kindred selected by your people.” LaCroix moved slightly closer to the front of the stage. “The Camarilla will remain in Los Angeles, Strauss or no Strauss. If led by Strauss, there is no hope for Anarch power. If he is replaced by another, I can guarantee that you will not be presented an offer kinder than the one I am presenting now.”

“I am going to kill Strauss with or without Anarch help,” Claire added, her voice sharp. “But I want to use this as more than a vendetta - instead, as an opportunity for unity. I personally ask all of you for your aid. Please. Look beyond us, beyond yourselves, to what future nights in Los Angeles will be like depending on what path you choose.”

Voices in the audience grew louder. Abrams raised his hands. “Let’s discuss this among ourselves. Farington, LaCroix, if you’d step backstage, please.”

They obeyed, the crowd’s conversations turning more heated behind them. Backstage was dusty and poorly lit, and LaCroix paced restlessly as Claire perched herself on a creaky old chair. They waited in silence for several minutes until a sudden quiet, then shouting in the audience got their attention.

“What in...” LaCroix went to peer past the curtain, but Claire grabbed his arm and pushed past him. They both looked, and LaCroix felt his blood turn colder than death.

Making his way toward the stage was a very dirty, bloody, and scarred Nines Rodriguez, dragging half a werewolf pelt behind him.

The audience was in total chaos, on their feet, yelling and cheering. thrilled and utterly confused.

“-could’ve sent some people to look for me,” Rodriguez was saying. Abrams looked even paler, staring at the Brujah. He’d evidently given up any attempt at controlling the crowd.

LaCroix’s gaze whipped to Claire. “ _What in Christ’s name is going on?_ ”

Her eyes were wide. “I didn’t... I told you I didn’t _see_ him die, but it’s been ages, and that werewolf, he had to have been -”

“Well _clearly_ he is not,” LaCroix hissed.

“What do we-”

“How should I know?”

“But he was de-”

“Obviously not, Claire!”

She stared at him. “What should I-”

“Just let me think, let me think.” LaCroix ran a hand over his face.

“Heard you were all here tonight because of some nonsense with LaCroix,” came Rodriguez’s voice from the stage. “I’ve missed a lot, but shouldn’t he be in an urn by now?”

“They’re here now,” said Abrams.

“The hell is ‘they?’”

“LaCroix and Farington.”

Rodriguez coughed. “Farington, huh? The kid’s still kicking? Well, where are they? I’d like to chat.”

They looked at each other. LaCroix felt paralyzed. There had to be a back way out of the theater... but then that would equal giving up on any chance they’d started to create with the Anarchs. But if Rodriguez...

“Sebastian,” Claire whispered, “please, I don’t know what to do.”

Several Anarchs made their decision for them, passing through the curtain and grabbing their arms to bring them out onstage.

“That’s enough,” Abrams snapped, and the kindred let them go but stood nearby.

Rodriguez looked and smelled like death. “Hear you’re not the Prince anymore,” he said.

LaCroix opened his mouth and closed it again, stifling a sharp remark.

“That’s what I thought. You know, Claire,” Rodriguez added, turning to her, “you could’ve at least looked over the cliff before you ran off. Had quite a tussle with Cujo here. It was something to see.”

“I’m sorry, Nines,” Claire said. “I was scared, of the fire and the wolves. I ran.”

“Yeah, I can see that. The fire, huh?” He paused letting his words hang, then shrugged. “So what’s this, LaCroix, you trying to lead some kind of revolution, take back your throne on the backs of my people because you think nobody will stop you?”

“No.” Unconsciously he took Claire’s hand, startling himself when he realized that he had. “I am here because we need help. The necessity of an alliance with the Anarchs hasn’t changed, Rodriguez.”

“It’s not an alliance if the other party’s got nothing to offer. You’re a nobody, just like us, now. Unless you’re ready to get down off your high horse, we’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“Nines,” Abrams interjected, “a great deal has changed while you’ve been gone. Strauss of the Tremere is leading the city’s Camarilla. He’s declared a blood hunt on Jack. They’ve made some good points about -”

“Goddamn old Anarchs,” Rodriguez growled. “Always willing to compromise. Fighting against the Kuei-jin is a hell of a lot different from putting some holier-than-thou bureaucrat back in power.”

“But why does it have to be him?” Abrams asked. “Why not F-”

“I don’t care _who_ it is. We’re not doing this, Isaac.”

“You are being short-sighted, Rodriguez. Typical disrespectful behavior. _You’re_ not in charge.”

“Like hell he’s not!” shouted someone in the crowd, echoed by many. Most in the audience were starting to get up, arguing with one another.

“Farington is the only option,” Abrams insisted. “We need her as an ally if we want any hope of Anarch prominence in this city. We’ve already lost one war with the Camarilla, Nines.” He waved his hand at the remains of the dead werewolf. “I’m sure you’re quite fired up after such a victory and apparently living in the woods for the past couple weeks but chaos is not the answer. We can’t win a second war with them. We can’t.”

Claire frowned. “Okay, I never said anything about myself getting the position of Prince. I have no interest in that. It’s Sebastian’s.”

LaCroix’s brow creased. He’d never considered it. If her greater popularity ensured some degree of Anarch support, and if they could essentially jointly rule... it was a possibility, but one he wasn’t sure he liked.

Abrams looked exasperated. “We won’t back LaCroix. That’s not up for debate.”

“Neither is the fact that he and I come together. It’s both of us or nothing, Isaac.”

“Hey.” Rodriguez slammed his fist into his other open palm. “There’s no we backing anybody. I don’t care what you say. This is our chance. Strauss is too new, unprepared. We’ll be able to-”

“If Strauss is anything, it’s prepared,” Claire interrupted. “You think he hasn’t been planning this whole coup for ages? He’s a Tremere regent, Nines. He’s not an idiot.”

“We’ll see how smart he is when we paint Venture Tower with his blood,” Rodriguez growled.

Abrams took a step closer to the Brujah. “Damn it, Nines, this is-”

“Suicide? So’s fighting a werewolf.”

“Stop,” LaCroix commanded. “All of you. This is what Strauss wants.” Several fell still from the force of his voice, but shrieking floated forward from the back of the room.

“Down with the Camarilla!” dozens of kindred were shouting. “Kill the invaders! Free L.A.!”

At that moment fire alarms in the building started going off, sending the already excitable audience into further chaos. Smoke grenades rolled down the aisles, leaking clouds of opaque grey into the massive space until the crowd was engulfed in it.

Rodriguez grumbled something and started down into the seats while Abrams hung back, shouting at his people to try to regain some kind of order. LaCroix frowned, staring into the smoke until a group of black-clothed, apparent Anarchs charged the stage, knives and pistols in hand. Claire swirled a blood shield around herself, letting go of LaCroix’s hand. The cool blue of Potence engulfed him, Presence’s soft gold sending the thugs near him reeling back in instinctive fear and awe. Abrams gleamed gold nearby.

Claire struck outward, her blood projectiles and bullets downing several kindred before she was swarmed by a dozen of them, shrieking her name, followed by the wooden thud of a stake plunging through her flesh and into the stage.

LaCroix’s mind switched into a pure, blind rage; not the uncontrolled chaos of frenzy but a cold, single-minded killing force. He strode toward them, the first three he reached screaming and foaming as they turned their weapons on themselves. Others attacked each other, falling to the stage in a mess of blood and ashes, seizing as they died. He grasped the particular kindred who’d staked Claire by the back of the neck, snapping and twisting, his head and spine tearing from his body in a gout of blood, falling to fiery ashes, that sent the few still living reeling back in terror.

He knelt beside Claire, pulling the stake from her chest as he cradled her body. “Claire? Darling, are you all right?”

She growled and wriggled, then relaxed as she realized it was LaCroix who had her. “Yeah. Damn it. God, next stop is Mercurio for some body armor.”

He exhaled. “Good. Come on, up you get.” Gently he helped her stand.

Abrams was brushing ashes off his suit, the smoke in the theater starting to clear as the whining old fire alarm fell silent. Nines Rodriguez was gone, as was half the audience; including, LaCroix noted, Skelter and Damsel. “These idiotic children are going to get themselves all killed,” he muttered.

“And you wonder why we say the Camarilla is necessary,” LaCroix snapped, his patience gone. “They will make a good distraction while we slip in to kill Strauss, at least.”

Claire shook her head. “Hopefully we get there before he turns them all to blood pudding.”

The Toreador snorted in annoyance. “This is a poor situation for everyone. Their lives are not a source of amusement.”

“Then they should not have attacked Claire,” said LaCroix. “Or you, for that matter.”

Abrams waved his hand. “Just get out of my sight, both of you. I’ll be in contact at some point, but first I have a mess to clean up.”

 

* * *

 

They slipped back to the motel, where they were greeted by a room door that was open a fraction. Claire rolled her eyes and pushed it open, sending the three Anarchs waiting for them flying against the back wall in a burst of blood and ashes. Two more waited in the bathroom, and LaCroix dispatched them with a flick of his wrist, each plunging a blade upward into their own skull.

LaCroix sniffed. “Do you suppose this place has room service?”

Claire didn’t answer but flung her arms around his neck, pushing him against the wall as her mouth covered his. Startled, LaCroix slid his arms around her and kissed her back.

“What was that?” he asked, drawing back a bit to look at her.

Her expression was cloudy, her cheeks beautifully flushed. “Has enough time gone by to do the second draught now?”

Blood spiked within him, his beast growling. “I would assume so. There’s really no manual for this sort of thing.” Brow creasing, he stroked her hair. “What’s wrong, my love?”

“Other than everything?” Roughly she pulled him down toward her again, her kiss deep and ferocious, his blood on fire within him. “It’s all pointless,” she murmured against him. “This city. There’s no hope for it.”

“Hope is frequently an illusion.”

“I thought we were done with philosophy?” She sighed, kissing his jawline and neck.

“It’s inescapable, sadly. But one thing at a time.” His breath caught as she nipped lightly at his skin. “The Anarchs can tear each other apart for all I care. We’ll get in and kill Strauss, as I said, then we will figure out what to do from there.”

“I don’t want to be in charge.”

“I know, _petite fille_.” Lightly he gripped her chin, tilting it up so he could meet her eyes. “But I do.” He picked her up and spun around, thrilling at the little noise in her throat as her back hit the wall. “It doesn’t matter who has what title, wouldn’t you say?”

“Maybe not, but-” Her words ended in a whimper as he pressed against her. “And I don’t know what my clan will do. I don’t think I can just kill the Regent of Los Angeles and have no consequences.”

“One thing...” He gripped her wrists with one hand, lifting her arms above her head. “...at a time, hmm?”

A dark look in her eyes sending a stab of hunger straight to the core of him. “Isn’t it supposed to be ladies first?”

“Is that so?” He leaned forward, one corner of his mouth curved in a smile, intentionally keeping his neck out of her reach. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for a gentleman.”

She wriggled, wrapping her legs around him and drawing him closer to her. The scent of her blood inflamed him. “I know better than that, Sebastian.”

“Mm.” He was having difficulty resisting, himself. “So clever. Perhaps I can be persuaded.”

She strained forward, but he kept her pinned in place. “ _Je te veux_ , Sebastian,” she mumurred. “ _Laisse-moi te dévorer_.”

_I want you. Let me devour you._

He growled and pushed forward, tilting his head, still holding her arms up even as she bit greedily into his neck. That control only lasted a moment as the sensation overwhelmed him in a blind wave of breathless pleasure, her arms slipping down to wrap around his neck. In a moment she drew back, licking her lips with a wicked smile. He shoved her hard against the wall and kissed her deeply, tasting his own blood in her mouth. Sharply, without grace, he sank one hand into her hair and pulled her head to the side, barely taking a moment to inhale the scent of her before he bit down. She flooded his senses, cool water on stone, endless pages of knowledge secret and forbidden, all forbidden, and he cared less than he ever had about what was proper and right and what was not, what was sin, what was deeper and purer than any transgression he’d ever known.


End file.
